


Bitterwood Creek

by Arianna



Series: Brothers in Time (Gen Version) [3]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Soul Bond, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 02:51:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 132,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8515696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianna/pseuds/Arianna
Summary: Brothers in Time, The Old WestThis is the gen version of this story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally Posted at [Starfox's Mansion](http://wolfpanther.com/)
> 
> My thanks go to:  
> StarWatcher for her incredible beta work on this story. She has an unerring eye and ear that capture the grammatical and typographical glitches, but also allows her to hear the voice and rhythm of the story, so she provides invaluable coaching in helping me to make your reading experience as pleasurable as possible. Further, I must credit her with key research and substantive creative ideas; for example, she came up with the symbolism for Jim's senses …and though I had chosen the title out of thin air, her contributions in identifying a natural and centuries old remedy made an accidental title truly meaningful…
> 
> Romanse for her continued enthusiastic encouragement. She also made very substantive suggestions on how to enrich this story from its original draft to its final finished version. Finally, this story came into being only because she asked me to consider creating something I would never have thought of doing…a TS AU situated in the Old West…
> 
> As always, to Starfox, for coding and posting my stories in her beautiful Mansion…
> 
> I hope you'll have as much fun reading this story, as I had writing it!

Thirty-two hooves pounded rhythmically into the trail, such as it was, kicking up dust and grit that rose in a choking, stinging cloud made larger by the cut of the four heavy, iron-rimmed wheels into the uneven, rocky terrain. Most of the billowing fog of loose sand roiled up behind the stagecoach, but some of it, inevitably, blew in the open windows on the hot, dry wind, thickening the air, making it hard to breathe inside the stifling interior without coughing. The creak of wood and the jangle of harness, the rumble of the wheels and the thundering hooves created an unholy racket, so that it was impossible to talk within the coach without shouting to be heard. Not that anyone was talking. The perpetual lurch and jerk of the stagecoach as it lumbered over rocks and ruts, and the unforgiving discomfort of the hard leather benches, had long past numbed everyone into a weary stupor of resignation. They stared into space or out the windows across the rolling prairie, toward the line of cottonwoods that followed the nearby river that wound lazily from the northwest across the endless rolling Kansas plains dotted with herds of cattle.

The river allowed some measure of escape for at least one passenger as he fantasized about how it would feel to walk naked into its cool depths and wash off the salt of sweat that dried instantly in the stifling heat, and the grit that got into every joint and wrinkle, matting hair and irritating eyes…he imagined the water's silky, luxurious rush over aching bones, soothing away the stiffness and fatigue…breathing the sweet, clear air that rustled through leaves above while floating in the dappled shadows of those arching trees, out of the harsh glare of the sun. Floating gently, cushioned by the river's strength to wherever it was flowing… hearing the lazy plop of a fish or the soft, gurgling rush of the water over stones by the sloping bank… peaceful and restorative…

He was jerked back to hot, dusty reality by the jolt of the stagecoach coming to a sudden stop. Blinking, he looked around, wondering what had broken the journey and realizing they must be close to the noon stop at Bitterwood Creek, a small oasis in a sea of grass burned brown by the relentless sun of still early summer. But, when he leaned forward to look out of the window cut into the top half of the narrow door, he could see they were yet a good ways from town, its wooden structures rising brown and gray against the pale blue, cloudless sky. Above and forward, he could hear the driver muttering to himself as he climbed down from the wooden bench, "Poor, luckless bastards…"

Frowning, he pulled on the small, metal latch of the door and pushed it open to step down to the ground.

"What's going on, driver?" he asked, curious. "Why have we stopped?"

"Well, I was just a'comin' to tell ya'll," the sun-weathered, lean man sighed as he took off his broad-brimmed hat to wave toward the town, or perhaps more particularly toward the yellow bandana hanging limply on a post pounded into the side of the trail. "Looks like they got some sickness yonder. Must be bad, for 'em to warn off travelers," he continued with a grimace of rough compassion as he mopped the runnels of sweat and dust from his brow with a faded and wrinkled handkerchief. "We'll have to water the horses at the river, and keep goin' 'til we hit the next stop."

The traveler could hear the other passengers mutter and groan, unhappy to know there'd be nothing to eat until suppertime, but he ignored them. Frowning thoughtfully as he gazed at the town, he asked, "They got a doctor in this town?"

"No, old Doc Wilcox died last winter," the driver replied sonorously, looking regretful. "He was a good man. Too bad, a tragedy really."

"What happened?" he asked, a hint of concern mingling with curiousity in his voice and eyes.

"Got caught in a sudden blizzard on his way back from attendin' a birthin'. Froze t'death," the driver sighed but then shrugged in resignation. Life could be hard on the prairie.

He winced and shivered, despite the heat of the mid-June, noonday sun. Gazing again at the yellow rag, his generous lips compressed in thought, and then he nodded to himself. It wasn't as if he was heading anywhere in particular. He'd thought he'd only be passing through Bitterwood Creek on his way to somewhere else, but this town was as good as any, and it seemed they needed him. "Better pull my bags down from the top," he said, sturdily determined in his posture and tone. "I'll be staying here."

 ** _"Are you loco?"_** the dust-covered driver demanded in astonishment, as he pointed again at the tattered flag of warning. "Son, people are **_dyin'_** in Bitterwood Creek!"

"I know, and that's why I'm staying," he said evenly, his clear blue gaze lifting to meet the startled gray eyes of the driver. "I'm a doctor."

"Ah, well, if'n you're sure," the rugged, middle-aged man replied uneasily as he regarded the young man standing quietly before him. He seemed hardly more than a kid, with his worn, but carefully mended, blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to bare lightly bronzed, lean forearms and hands, faded jeans, and scuffed boots. His hair was a wild mane of dark chestnut curls that the hot, dusty wind blew around his face, while wide, very vivid, blue eyes returned the driver's uncertain gaze with steady calm.

"I'm sure," he said with quiet determination as he turned and pointed up at his three, travel-worn bags.

Minutes later, he had a canvas pack over his shoulder, his leather medical bag in one hand and his battered suitcase in the other. He nodded courteously to the driver and the other passengers as he took his leave of them, and turned to stride resolutely toward the town.

"Good luck to ya, son!" the driver called out before climbing back up to his wooden bench. **"Hiya!"** he called to his horses and whipped the reins to urge them into motion, and moments later the stage was rattling toward the river, and then onward across the Kansas plains.

* * *

Dust devils whirled and danced on the wide street that ran through the center of the town. It wasn't much, more of a village, really, with its clapboard church and one-room schoolhouse, a good-sized general store, blacksmith, livery stable, land registry office, post office and saloon. There was one two-story hotel that claimed clean rooms and good food, with a public bath next door; on the other side of the hotel was a barbershop, that boldly asserted that teeth could be pulled there. A bank, solidly built of stone with a broad glass window, stood across the street; and next to it was a bakery that advertised home-cooked meals could be had inside. The sheriff's office and jail; a newspaper office and print shop on one side, the deserted doctor's office with grimy windows and living quarters above, on the other; a boarding house; and a telegraph office pretty much rounded out the businesses. There were houses scattered on the far end of the town center, most of them arranged around the church, closer to the creek that supported the growth of shade trees - mostly willow and elder, with the odd sycamore and oak, and stands of birch and aspen. The houses, like the business establishments, were mostly built of weathered wood, though some looked more prosperous and were painted, with broad verandahs and tended paths.

Returning his attention to the street he was walking along, the young doctor noted the dusty boardwalks that lined the thoroughfare, about two feet above the ground - unnecessary at this time of year, but no doubt appreciated when the street was a river of mud in the spring and slushy, icy muck in the dead of winter. Some of the wood-planked walks, in front of the deserted doctor's office, newspaper office, hotel and barbershop, were covered and sported wooden chairs or benches for people to sit awhile to gossip, and watch the activity on the roadway. Hitching rails and water troughs stood sturdily in front of every establishment. In the back, out of sight - ' _But not scent,_ ' he thought wryly as he sniffed - he knew he'd find the outhouses: privies, washhouses, sheds, chicken coops and wagons as well as small private stables for horses and maybe the odd milch cow. Since he didn't see many wells in plain sight, he figured he'd also find them back of most establishments and homes, and he wondered if that's what had caused the sickness - wells dug in ground where waste soaked in too close by, polluting the soil and hence the water that filtered through it.

The place looked deserted, as if everybody had upped and moved away, abandoning the town to the eerie low moan of the wind and the dusty, shifting sand. But he knew the appearance was deceptive. The people would be inside their homes, fearfully avoiding contact with their neighbours, and safeguarding their children - either frightened of catching ill themselves or struggling desperately to care for those already stricken. And the sick, if there were so many that it had warranted that yellow rag of warning outside town, where would they be? Many were probably in their own homes, but surely if the situation warranted quarantining the town, some few must be caring for the others who were unable to care for themselves? In the church, maybe? Most likely, as it would both provide the floor-space required and give the comforting illusion of being closer to God that He might better hear their desperate prayers.

He was headed that way when a door banged from the street behind him and he turned at the sound. A slender, sandy-haired woman had just come out of the telegraph office and, seeing him, was looking at him curiously.

"Didn't you see the warning outside town?" she called out, one hand lifting to shade her eyes from the sun's glare.

"Yes, I did," he replied with a tentative smile, as he walked back toward her. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, her hair not yet gray. And she looked very tired, her plain but pleasant face pale and worn by worry, her clothes wrinkled, as if she might have been sleeping in them, likely in a chair by someone's bedside. "I was passing through on the stage and thought I might be of some use. My name is Blair Sandburg, and I'm a doctor."

She sighed and her shoulders slumped as if a great burden had just been lifted from them. Smiling wearily in return, she nodded as she said with devastating sincerity, "Dr. Sandburg, you're the answer to our prayers. Welcome, sir, to Bitterwood Creek. I'm the school teacher, and my name is Nellie Bascome."

* * *

Captain James Ellison, US Cavalry, led his scout patrol warily around Chief Running Deer's village in Poplar Flats. The patrol had left their horses farther back in a copse of trees - the better to remain undetected - and approached stealthily under the cover of the thickly growing brush and willows by the stream. His men were nervous, uneasy, and they undoubtedly had every right to be - tensions between the whites and the Indians had broken out into sporadic raids and massacres wherever settlers were putting their roots down across the west. But so far as Ellison could determine, as he strained to hear the activity in the camp without getting too close that their presence would become known, Running Deer seemed to have brought his people into line and was living up to the terms of the most recent treaty…

"Sir! Captain Ellison, sir! Is something wrong?" Corporal Shamus McAdam hissed urgently, keeping his voice low as he shook his unresponsive officer's arm.

"Huh?" Jim jerked back to conscious awareness of the world around him. Mortified, he rubbed a hand over his face and nodded as he murmured back, "Yeah, I'm fine - I was just, uh, listening to what's going on in the village."

McAdam looked confused as his gaze shifted from his Captain to the village some good distance away and back again. "You can hear them, sir?"

"Well, enough," Ellison replied brusquely, as he swiveled on one knee to head back the way they'd come. "Round up the others and let's get back to our mounts. Everything's quiet here, and it looks like Running Deer has settled down. At least for now."

As they rode back to the fort, Ellison chewed his lip in silence, once again preoccupied with his well-hidden anxiety about why, since the War, he seemed to slip into these waking fainting spells. He didn't understand them, or why they happened, because he didn't feel ill, except for the headaches that plagued him when the light was too bright or he was surrounded by too much noise and confusion. Oh, sometimes foods bothered him, seeming suddenly too sweet or spicy, and his woolen clothing caused a rash from time to time, but he was hale and strong. The mysterious malady frankly scared him, as did the times when sounds seemed to crash into him like a physical blow, or his eyes played tricks on him, making him think he could see for miles - because the spells were unpredictable and, therefore, dangerous. What if he lost track of all awareness, freezing into an unresponsive stupor in the midst of a battle? By ignoring the spells, he knew he was unquestionably putting himself at risk, but what troubled him far more was that he could also be putting his men in danger - and that, for someone who bore his leadership responsibilities as a kind of sacred commitment, was utterly unacceptable.

* * *

Nellie took Blair around Bitterwood Creek to see all the people who had succumbed to the disease…at least, those who were still alive. As they walked, she did her best to tell him what had happened. In the past week, not a family had been spared, with at least one child and frequently more, as well as some adults - mostly ones who were elderly and not strong - suffering from the grave illness. The stricken were delirious with fever, complaining bitterly of throats that felt like they were on fire, and in considerable breathing distress. While most people were still trying to manage in their homes, about fifteen had been taken to the church to make caring for them easier. As they passed the small, well-tended cemetery beside the church, she mournfully told him that six children under the age of two, and one old grandmother had already succumbed to the disease. In a population consisting of fewer than two hundred souls, each individual death brought grief, and increasing fear, to all the rest.

Blair paused for a moment, looking at the hand-carved, engraved stones or lovingly crafted wooden markers. Sadly, he shook his head as his gaze wandered further, the grave markers telling their own grim story of the harshness of life on the prairie. Children were disproportionately represented, the coincidence of dates on various markers hinting that this wasn't the first time the town had suffered a wave of deaths over a short period of time, through some contagion or another. But there were also a heartrending number of markers that indicated too many children hadn't lived more than a day or two after being born; some not even lasting a day, or perhaps stillborn, who hadn't lived long enough to be given a name of their own. On too many markers there was only the family name followed by _Baby Girl, February 16, 1861_ , or _Baby Boy, August 23, 1857_ , to say those poor little babes hadn't had any chance at all. Plots were clustered in family groupings, and he could read the sorrows and tragedies that many families had endured as they struggled to raise children on the prairie. It gave him a deeper sense of the history of these people he was about to meet - and a profound empathy for how very frightened so many must be that they would lose their precious children to this most recent sickness.

Gently, as he went from house to house, he examined each patient, listening to them breathe as he took their pulses, testing their reflexes, checking their ears, throats, necks and underarms, palpitating their abdomens, and gauging the heat of their fevers against the skin of his inner wrist. Though his manner remained reassuring and steady, inwardly he was both troubled by the seriousness of their disease, and deeply relieved to not have found any buboes that would have signaled plague. Nevertheless, his patients were very ill, suffering considerable discomfort and malaise, and this disease had already proven it was both very contagious and could kill. Behind his easy smile and kind eyes, he grimly catalogued their symptoms in his mind: breathing difficulty, husky voices, enlarged lymph glands, increased heart rate, the stridor or shrill breathing sound he could hear as they dragged in air, copious greenish-yellow nasal drainage, swelling of the palate on the roof of their mouths, obviously very sore throats, and low-grade fevers. In many cases, he noticed the telltale membrane that was forming over the throat and tonsils. It was this membrane, he knew, that did the killing, cutting off the victim's ability to breathe, and asphyxiating them. It was a terrible, frightening, way to die. When he found that symptom, he acted quickly, using a mixture of baking soda and water as a mouthwash, and urging his patients to cough to clear away and spit out its residue.

In three urgent cases, he immediately saw that such prophylactic measures would clearly be inadequate, as the young children were in dire danger of imminent death. To the horror of the parents looking on, he had to perform an urgent, unavoidable tracheotomy upon each of those three suffocating little ones. Blair had the panicking parents look at the membrane to know it was real, and he explained to them why his radical treatment was necessary if they wanted their son or daughter to survive. When, sorely frightened, desperate in their hope, they gave uncertain permission, he pulled a sharp scalpel from his bag, washed it and his hands with soap and water, and then held the blade in a candle's flame to cleanse it. Though not all his professors or colleagues thought such routine cleansing was necessary, he'd recently read an article in a medical journal from Britain postulating that disease was passed by tiny, invisible entities called germs - _and_ that it appeared frequent cleansing of the hands with soap and water, as well as the sterilization of equipment and materials through immersing them in extreme heat for several minutes - either boiling water or fire - could reduce the incidence of infection and disease. Since he'd long ago learned firsthand that it was post-surgical infection that killed more patients than the original malady or injury, he'd taken the stark, if still disputed, lessons of that treatise to heart.

In each instance where he had to intervene immediately to save the child's life, the mothers whimpered with fear, while the fathers took their wives into their arms while gritting their jaws and glaring at him helplessly as he slit the small children's throats and windpipes just below their Adam's apples, and then eased in thin, hollow, glass curettes. But, when their child's breathing immediately eased, the parents gazed at him with awe and tearful gratitude. He told them how to keep the airway open, and that he'd be back to check on the child later. Then, as he had at every other stop, he told them how to fight the fevers with tepid baths as well as how to help their children breathe by leaning them over bowls of steaming water. Some, who believed too much bathing could be hazardous to the health looked at him askance, but nodded when he insisted. When the patients were in acute breathing distress, he also instructed them on the use of improvised tents of steam, employing basins of steaming water and towels; he gave them small amounts of oil of eucalyptus, that he pulled in a brown bottle from his bag and poured sparingly into small cups or bowls, to be added to the steaming water.

And then he moved on to the next house, and the next, completing his diagnosis of the disease and the extent of its spread in the town. When he was told of the old grandmother who had died the day before, he asked how she'd gone, and heard of chest pains, laboured breathing and swollen extremities. Nodding with compassionate understanding, he reflected silently that heart failure was one of the causes of death - particularly of the weak, whether very young or elderly - from the disease he was certain he was up against.

Finally, as he and Nellie walked up the church steps to enter into the lofty chapel, she told them the names of the three women who were helping to care for those whose own parents were ill, and for some of the elderly from homes where the sick children required time that could not be given to their care. As they stepped into the interior from the small porch outside, Sandburg couldn't help but notice the care and subtle artistry that had gone into its design. It was modest, yet peaceful; the plain wood of the chancel, the altar and the stark, simple cross, as well as of the pews (which were currently pressed against the walls), gleamed with natural beauty. Windows were cut into the walls along the sides creating a light, airy ambiance.

There were fifteen people lying on pallets on the floor, covered by homespun blankets, and three of the town's matrons were doing their best to provide comfort and care. Eleven children and four elderly people, all of them women, were in various stages of lethargy and compromised respiration.

Before he made his way around all of the sick, Nellie introduced him to the women who were nursing the others. Lucinda Gurney, whose husband worked in the saloon, was a blowsy brunette with the ripe complexion of a peach. Though her manner was unsophisticated, even a bit unconsciously forward, and she was the only woman in town he'd met so far who used rouge on her cheeks and lips, he was impressed with the warmth of the genuine kindness in her eyes. LeeAnn Raymond was married to the man who published the local weekly paper and sold stationary as well as other paper products. A tall woman with gold-spun hair caught in a chignon on her nape, shy in her manner, she had an air of natural refinement and delicacy as she moved with unconscious grace. She, too, exhibited kindness and a tender touch as she held a young child in her arms to help the little mite breathe.

And then there was Urseline Tucker, wife of the bank clerk in town. Bossy in her manner, mincing in an attempt to present herself as a woman of quality and substance, she was overly loud with the sick, her voice grating and far from restful. Still, observing her quietly from across the wide room as he entered, Blair assumed she must also be well motivated. Not everyone was blessed with Lucinda's natural, if rough, charm or LeeAnn's ethereal dignity. Curious about the handsome stranger, eager to take charge, Urseline Tucker bustled across the room to accost them before they were scarcely in the door. Nellie hastened to introduce him and she blustered out an exuberant welcome. Smiling, he turned away to begin assessing the condition of his patients, but she followed along on his heels, determined to learn all she could about this startling new doctor.

"Dr. **_Sandburg_** , ah, that's an **_unusual_** name," she fluttered, thinking herself subtle. "Where are you from, **_exactly_**?"

"Back east," he replied pleasantly as he knelt to examine a boy of nine or ten years who looked dull with lethargy and his weary effort to breathe. "I was just passing through on the stage and thought I might be able to lend a hand."

"Well, I'm sure we're very grateful and, may I be so bold as to say, I hope you'll be staying awhile," she carried on, fluttering her eyelashes at the handsome young man. "We've gone too long without a doctor in Bitterwood Creek. Dr. Wilcox was a fine man, to be sure, but not very sensible going out in that blizzard…"

"Mmm," Blair murmured as he ruffled the boy's hair and then moved on to the little girl on the next pallet.

"You know, I don't think I've ever met anyone by the name of **_Sandburg_** before," she dithered. "Really, **_most_** unusual. I must say, it's really too bad that your first visit to our church has to be under these deplorable circumstances, but I'm sure you'll see it as it should be on Sunday."

Blair blinked as he straightened, finished with the little girl, who'd said with a lisp that her name was Annie, and turned to Urseline. "I'm afraid, as I'm sure your Pastor understands, we'll be needing the church as a temporary hospital for at least a week, and if others fall ill, probably longer."

"Oh," she fluttered caught between being appalled and alarmed, her hand patting the base of her throat. "Pastor Stevens doesn't know about the sickness. He was called out of town, oh, almost a month ago now, because his dear mother had fallen ill." She looked away, wringing her hands in distress, though her tone indicated his mother had been quite inconsiderate, falling ill the way she had. "He wasn't sure when he'd be back, and every flock needs a shepherd, don't you think? Still, I'm sure he won't mind and he'll be glad to meet you the first Sunday he's back for services."

Blair lifted his chin slightly, and his gaze was direct though his tone was mild, as he replied, "I'll look forward to meeting him as well, but it won't be at Sunday prayer services. I'm Jewish, Mrs. Tucker."

" ** _Jew_** … _oh, dear_ ," she gasped, very flustered and, if the way she lurched backward was any indication, more than a little horrified. Looking wildly around the sanctuary, she faltered, "But, then, you must find it very awkward being in here."

"Not at all," Sandburg answered smoothly. "It's a fine building, very beautiful. And I'm quite comfortable in a House of God. But as my faith and traditions are different, I'm sure you understand why I won't be attending on Sundays."

With that, he turned to move to his next patient, leaving her more than slightly breathless with astonishment and somewhat in fear for her soul to have welcomed him and urged him to stay before knowing he was quite unsuitable. Putting distance between herself and the young doctor with unsightly haste, she darted over to whisper loudly to LeeAnn Raymond, "He's a **_Jew!"_**

LeeAnn merely nodded, unconcerned. Not getting the response she felt was warranted in the circumstances, Urseline peered at him over her shoulder as she observed, "But, don't you think it's odd for a Jew to be caring for good Christian folk in God's House?"

Lifting one brow, LeeAnn shook her head. "No, why should I? He's a doctor and these poor souls need his care."

"Well, that's very forgiving of you, my dear, I'm sure!" Urseline snipped righteously, "considering, **_his_** people **_crucified_** our **_dear_** Lord Jesus and it's **_blasphemy_** , that's what, him even being inside this **_holy_** place!" Her lips pursed and, flushed with indignation, she cast one last withering look at Blair and then flounced out of the church, clearly unwilling to countenance such 'blasphemy' herself.

Nellie was ready to die of embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she murmured to Blair, a bright blush staining her cheeks. "Mrs. Tucker is, well…"

But Sandburg just shook his head. "Don't worry about it," he smiled in return. "Meeting new people unsettles some folk."

Bowing her head, Nellie admitted uncomfortably, "Mrs. Tucker isn't the only person in Bitterwood Creek who is _'easily unsettled'_ , I'm afraid," she told him softly, wanting to be honest, but mortified by the confession. Looking up at him, she went on with touching candour, "But, _please_ , pay them no mind. You…you were so good to come to help us and we _need_ you…"

"Really, it's alright, Nellie," Blair assured her with a wry grin of complicity, amused by the euphemism; so much more pleasant than 'bigoted' or 'discriminatory', which was why he'd come to employ the term; it caused less defensiveness but still allowed acknowledgement of the reality. "I've met lots of _'easily unsettled'_ people before. Don't worry - I came to help, and I will."

When he'd seen the last of the afflicted in the church, Sandburg waved Nellie outside where they could talk quietly. "It's not scarlet fever or measles," he told her, as she'd expressed her fears earlier that it might be one of those relatively common diseases that appeared without warning to carry off the lives of innocent children. "There are no spots or distinctive flushing of the skin. It's diphtheria."

"Oh, no," she sighed, shaking her head. Diphtheria was a voracious killer, and one for which there was no known cure.

"As you heard me explain to the parents as we went along, we need to bring the fevers down, by bathing the victims frequently with tepid water. And they all need to be encouraged to drink nourishing broths to keep their strength up," he told her. "I've noticed chicken soup seems to work wonders with some infections, though I don't know why." Chewing his lip, he added quietly, "Most of the kids seem like they were basically healthy and well-nourished before becoming ill, so they've got a good chance of beating this thing. We need to help them breathe, though. Breathing-in steam will help, and I've got a little more eucalyptus with me to keep us going. Can you get some of the healthier folk organized to haul extra buckets of water to every house and here to the church? We'll be using it up fast with the baths and the steam treatments. Wood will need to be chopped to keep the fires going, and maybe ten or so chickens could be slaughtered and boiled, the broth shared communally."

Blair paused as he gathered his thoughts. There was something else he needed but he hadn't brought sufficient supplies with him. As he looked toward the trees, he grinned with sudden wry awareness, belatedly realizing that the plethora of willows along the creek was probably why the town had been called Bitterwood Creek - either by the first settlers, who'd have known about old home remedies as they had to fend for themselves without a physician nearby, or maybe it was a translation from the original Indian name for the area. "And I need someone to peel off about a bucket's worth of bark from the willow trees down by the creek," he added, turning back to Nellie. "Try to ensure the bark is dry, as I'll have to pound it into a powder and steep it to make tea \- it'll relieve their aches and help bring down the fevers. Tastes pretty bitter, so we'll need some honey to sweeten it, if it's available."

Glad of having something concrete and useful to do to fight the disease and save the children she'd come to love as her own, Nellie readily agreed to see his directions were immediately carried out. Then, thinking about what he'd said about running short of the meager supplies he carried with him, she ventured, "There might be more medicine in Dr. Wilcox's office…"

"Good idea," Sandburg agreed enthusiastically, rewarding her with a bright smile. "Who do I see about getting a key to the place?"

"The sheriff, Jeb Strong, will have it," she replied, pointing to the second house away from the church on the left.

Blair nodded - he'd met Jebediah Strong just a few minutes before. Three of his four children were ill and one of them had required an emergency tracheotomy. Sandburg had been impressed with the quiet strength and dignity of the man, his resolute determination to do, and accept, whatever was needed to ensure his kids got well. His wife, too, had been sensible, if still desperately afraid for her children - as he recalled, she'd taken in two neighbours' kids who were ill, sending her one still healthy child next door to what she hoped was a safer environment, still free of the ravaging disease.

When he strode back to the indicated house and asked for the key, Jeb gave it to him willingly and told Sandburg to make himself at home in the place, explaining that Old Doc Wilcox had lived alone and there'd been no one to claim his professional or personal belongings. Not only was there an office, according to the Sheriff, but also an adjoining storeroom in which the former physician had mixed and stocked his medicines, equipment and supplies. Further, in the back, also connected with the storeroom as well as the main hall, was a large infirmary, containing four cots for patients recovering from surgery that the doctor had performed on a specially crafted, high, narrow table in the center of the chamber. As well as the medical facilities, the spacious, clapboard building also held a private kitchen across the wide hallway from the office, where patients awaited their turn, and two good-sized bed-sitting rooms upstairs, one in front and the other in back. As far as Jeb was concerned, Sandburg was more than earning the 'inheritance' of the fully furnished home, office and infirmary.

Twenty minutes later, as Blair finished inspecting the office, small apothecary cum storeroom, airy combined surgery and recovery infirmary, and bright eat-in kitchen in the downstairs, and the two, good-sized bed-sitting rooms upstairs that provided comfortable personal living quarters, not to mention the well, privy and small stable with a cobwebbed-enshrouded buggy in the back, Blair couldn't help but shake his head in wonder and grateful delight.

Returning to the apothecary to inventory the stock of medicines, pitching that which was clearly too old to be useful and smiling as he found a good stock of eucalyptus, he murmured to himself, "Well, looks like you've finally found a place to put down some roots, Dr. Sandburg. Welcome to Bitterwood Creek."

* * *

"But, sir, I don't understand…" Captain Ellison protested to his Major; shocked, he was certain he couldn't have heard correctly, or had misunderstood the new orders.

"What's to understand, Captain?" Major Rutherford asked him superciliously. "Your orders are clear. We will attack Running Deer's camp and kill **_all_** the murderous vermin before they have a chance to massacre any more decent people."

Honestly appalled, Ellison blinked and swallowed back his fundamental loathing of his superior. Rutherford might be a prime example of the worst officers in the military - rich, spoiled, undisciplined, arrogant and stupid - but that wasn't the issue or of any real import. The issue at hand was the incredible, and even criminal, abominable new orders. "With all respect, sir," Ellison argued forcefully even as he strove to maintain at least a thin approximation of deference for the role, if not the person, of his superior officer, "These orders are currently unjustified. I've just returned from Poplar Flats, and I can assure you that Running Deer is holding to the terms of the treaty…"

"As if the word of a savage means anything," the Major sneered disparagingly.

"Regardless, **_our_** word **_should_** mean something, sir; we **_promised_** him peace if he kept his people out there in the encampment and didn't cause any more trouble," Jim pressed, straining to keep his voice tone even and non-judgmental. "The vast majority of the people in that village are women and children…"

"Who will grow up to murder our wives and children in their beds," Rutherford cut in ruthlessly. "Enough, Captain. Your orders are clear. We will attack at dawn."

Ellison blinked and swallowed hard. He'd always followed orders, ever since he'd joined the Army at the age of thirteen, running away on his birthday from a rich but loveless home in Philadelphia. He'd fought for the North through the whole of the Civil War, and he'd found the experience so horrific as to be beyond his means to describe or express in mere words, even to himself. Though the War had ended the year before, he still had nightmares about the cold that ate through inadequate clothing, numbing hands and feet until they felt like blocks of ice, the filth of blood-soaked mud, the screams of wounded and dying men - too many of whom had been scarcely more than boys who should have been safe at home. The noise of cannon and musketry exploding, the endless marches with too little sleep or food. And the disease that killed twice as many men as the enemy did…

…but, in all of that time, for all of his twenty-two years in service to his country, he'd followed orders. Some he'd questioned, and some had left him feeling uncomfortable, but never before had he felt this - **_revulsion_**. This was **_wrong_**. The acts planned for the morrow were a pure, absolute, dishonorable - and, yes criminal - betrayal of a trust. And, most wretchedly loathsome of all, it was an abomination to willfully and deliberately ride with the express intent to kill helpless women and innocent children.

The very idea thoroughly sickened him to his soul.

The Indians were the enemy, fine. He would never hesitate to engage them in battle or to chase them down if they violated the terms of an existing treaty and left the land assigned to them, however poor it was. But in his heart, he knew much of the land given over to them could not sustain them without the provision of food from the Indian Agents. He wondered how such proud warriors could humble themselves forever without feeling the need to fight back to retake what they'd had - all the land that the settlers, or the ever-expanding railroad, now claimed.

Suddenly, Ellison felt unutterably weary, and filthy, as if the wanton cruelty embodied in the orders, and in the subjugation of a whole people, stained him personally somehow. Was this why he'd fought a war that had, in part, been to free people of colour from the abomination of slavery? To be sent out here to a western outpost so that he could turn around and kill people of another colour, just because they fought for what had been theirs? **_Massacre_** them, just because of who and what they were born to be?

No.

He just couldn't do it.

No.

Shifting his cold, furious, gaze from his superior's face to stare at the wooden wall of Rutherford's office, he made his decision. It was June fourteenth, his thirty-fifth birthday - his twenty-second anniversary in uniform but the time had come to take it off.

With grim formality, Ellison said brusquely, "I hereby submit my resignation. I'll be out of the Fort before sunset, sir."

"You're not serious!" Rutherford jeered, appearing to be frankly astonished. "You'd give up your career because of a few, filthy savages?"

Jim's gaze then shifted to meet the Major's eyes, and what Rutherford saw in those cold blue orbs made him take a step back. "The orders are **_wrong_** , and you know it," Jim said with quiet menace. "But **_I_** know very well I would have no choice to follow them, or face court martial, if I hadn't become fully eligible for retirement more than a year ago when the War ended, and able to take my leave _at any time thereafter_ in accordance with regulation. However, I **_am_** eligible and I **_expect_** you to accept my resignation, effective immediately. Sir."

When Rutherford shook his head, looking as if he was about to refuse Ellison's resignation regardless of the regulations, Jim grated, "If more than twenty years of honourable service to our country, including throughout the whole of the worst war this nation has ever fought, doesn't compel you to adhere to my request, I hereby report to you that I am afflicted with a medical condition that makes me currently unfit for duty. I had fully intended to see the medic, following my report of the scouting mission to you, and have myself taken off the duty roster until my…condition could be diagnosed and treated. But that won't be necessary now - at least not here. Therefore, Major, as it turns out, I'm unfit for duty, anyway, so you have no choice in releasing me from the requirement to carry out these orders."

"What's wrong with you?" Rutherford demanded angrily, not believing a word of it. Ellison was, quite evidently, exceptionally healthy, his musculature well developed beyond performance requirements, his posture, bearing and demeanor conveying great strength and resolution. The Major had never seen anyone look less 'medically unfit' than the tall and vigorous officer standing before him.

"That, sir, is none of your business," Ellison snapped back scathingly. "If you'll excuse me, I'll put my resignation in writing and pack my gear."

Without waiting to be dismissed, Jim wheeled and left the Major's office, slamming the door on the way out.

Jim immediately wrote and submitted his formal resignation, but he'd underestimated Major Rutherford's reaction. He'd barely had time to change out of the wool uniform that badly irritated his skin, into a loose blue flannel shirt and jeans, when Rutherford arrived at his quarters with two armed, enlisted men. Before Ellison quite knew what was happening, he found himself marched under guard to the stockade under threat of being physically compelled if he didn't submit willingly. The barred door of the cell clanged as it was slammed shut and locked behind him, and then Rutherford abruptly dismissed the men who had escorted him to the fort's jail, leaving them alone.

"I don't trust you to uphold your vows of service to this country, the trust of your commission, or your loyalty to men you've led. I believe, if I let you ride out of this establishment now, you would warn the savages, destroying the element of surprise and forcing us to retreat before completing our mission. I will not allow that to happen. A stalemate would **_not_** be to this nation's benefit," Rutherford lectured coldly. "The orders are clear and will be followed \- no matter how 'wrong' **_you_** think the action may be. These are savage murderers who **_cannot_** be trusted not to kill again. An example must be made, so that others of their kind understand that their continued atrocities and resistance will not be tolerated, but met with maximum force. The Indians **_will_** learn from this and submit to our domination. I'm convinced that, in the long run, more lives will be saved than lost. Regardless, the bottom line is that the job of this military is to safeguard and protect American lives. **_Whatever_** the cost."

So angry he was bereft of words, Ellison glared at Rutherford, and then deliberately turned his back on him.

Exasperated, Rutherford's eyes glinted with hate. "Be grateful I haven't charged you with insubordination and refusal to follow orders. But, frankly, I'd much rather be rid of you - you're a stiff-necked, self-righteous bastard, Ellison. And, you're right, you **_are_** unfit for duty. I've accepted your resignation and, once it's too late for you to interfere in matters which no longer concern you, you'll be free to go to the Devil for all I care." With that, the Major turned and stomped away.

For all the hours of the very long night that followed, Ellison paced his cell, utterly sickened by what was about to occur and almost mad with his frustrated helplessness to stop it. For all of Rutherford's pompously sanctimonious rationalizations, there was a line an ethical man didn't cross, not in honour or decency. But, as the hours trickled by, he was honest enough to admit that, in the long run, Rutherford and their superiors could well be right - maybe more lives would be saved than lost in the overall equation; maybe it was the military's job to serve and support, to follow their orders, at whatever cost. But - he couldn't accept that. Couldn't pay that price to the Devil. He wasn't God, so how could he know that killing a village of innocents would save other lives somewhere else when the Indians finally gave up their battle for their homeland? How could anyone, but God and the Devil themselves, know the ledger would balance in the end? Bitterly, he shook his head. Somewhere back in the War, he'd lost his belief that any compassionate God could possibly exist; he'd seen far too much wretched ugliness, cruelty and sorrow to give the idea of an Almighty Father much credence anymore. But the Devil? Oh, yeah, of that he was damned sure. Ellison had long, cynically, believed that the Devil existed - if only in the evil that lurked within the souls of men.

In the darkness of the cell, he felt trapped by more than cement walls and iron bars. His memories of the pain and despair and misery he'd seen for too many years rose to torment him, leaving him disgusted with the inability of men to find solutions, or compel agreement, other than by the force of their weapons. Yes, there had to be some order, the innocent protected, the guilty brought to justice - a time when all else failed and force remained the only option. But, God, he was tired of the bloodshed even when it was required; he couldn't stomach wanton destruction and death.

Finally, three hours after he'd heard the troop ride out just before dawn, and a full two hours after he'd heard the first distant thundering of continuous shooting and the screams that he knew would haunt him all his days, the guard unlocked his cell and waved him out. Sick to his soul at the atrocity, knowing there was nothing that he could do for the now dead victims of the massacre, he stalked stiffly back to his quarters. In a haze of fury and despair, he finished packing his personal gear in his saddle bags, buckled his double belt of matching six-guns around his hips, and pulled on his sturdy black, oiled-canvas, weatherproof duster. Jamming his black Stetson onto his head, he grabbed his saddlebags and bedroll, and strode out to the barn where he saddled the magnificent ebony stallion, Lobo, that was his own, and not the property of the US Cavalry. Mounting up, he turned Lobo toward the open wooden gates of the Fort and headed out without a word to anyone. As soon as he was clear of the high walls, he urged his mount into a fast gallop out across the open prairie. He knew it was crazy, that there was nothing he could do, but he couldn't ride away as if the atrocity hadn't happened. He felt compelled to go, if only to be the one white man who bore witness to the betrayal and see it for the abomination that it was.

By the time Ellison drew close to the remains of the camp at Poplar Flats, the Cavalry had long finished their grisly work and moved on, chasing after those few who had managed to escape with their lives. Smoke rose on the wind, acrid and harsh, sickening with its strong odour of roasting flesh. His lips compressed, fighting the nausea that threatened, Jim rode forward without pause - maybe there were some victims who still clung to life, some he might yet help. As he drew closer still, and could begin to clearly see revolting details of the utter destruction, he couldn't help cursing in futile fury as his hope of being of help to anyone died.

The camp that, the day before, had been a thriving tent city of more than two hundred people, was now a blackened wasteland. It was eerily silent, as if even the birds in the nearby copse of trees and the wind in the brush had been struck dumb by the horror of what had happened there. Slowly, Jim rode through the remains of the village, past still smoldering scraps that had been homes only a few short hours before. His throat tightened as he saw the pitiful, often scorched, bodies of the women and children, shot as they'd run in mad panic to find some place of safety, left to die of their wounds or by fire; the men, old, young, all warriors in their last moments, their corpses either between those of their families and the Cavalry as it had rampaged into the camp, or lying over other bodies, a last, pitiful attempt to protect when there could be no protection. Some few of the dead looked peaceful in their final repose, but the vast majority had died with terror on their faces, caught in mid-scream. The place stank of blood and fire - of death.

Though he had no real hope of finding any that still lived, Jim quartered the remains of the entire camp, to be absolutely certain there were none still clinging to life, hopelessly suffering. He counted 114 children, 42 women and 37 men…194 dead. As he stood at the edge of the smoky massacre and stared down at a girl that couldn't have been more than four years old, a cornhusk doll still clutched in her tiny hand and a great, gaping crimson hole in her chest, he fell to his knees and bowed his head, no longer able to stave off the tears of grief and pity, disgust and guilt.

If he'd ridden out immediately, without alerting Rutherford to his complete antipathy for their orders, he might have warned them, might have been able to stave off this attack. But he hadn't expected to be locked up. Stupid. So stupid. How could he have been so naïve as to think Rutherford would just let him ride away? He'd've been labeled a traitor, and his own men would have looked upon him with contempt and loathing for having perhaps placed their lives in danger by alerting Running Deer, but surely his useless life was worth less than all of these lives. He would have been shot by a firing squad, but at least he would have died for a reason. But he hadn't just ridden out in violation of his commission and the trust placed in him while he wore the uniform, however repugnant the orders had been; he'd still been acting from a basis of honour, where there was no honour - of trust, where trust had no place. He'd been a fool, and now these people, these innocents who'd believed the word of the US Cavalry and the terms of their treaty, were dead.

Brushing the tears from his face with the back of his hand, Ellison stumbled to his feet, once again looking back over the killing ground. It felt indecent to ride away without burying the dead, but it also felt wrong to cover up what had been done. It was overwhelming and should stand as mute evidence of the perfidy of men. Looking to the north, he wondered if any had really escaped. He hadn't found Running Deer's corpse, or those of some of the other warriors he'd come to recognize. No doubt it was treason, but he hoped to hell they got away, to spread word of what happened here, so that it could never be hushed up, never be forgotten.

"I'm sorry," he choked into the silence. "This was wrong. I'm sorry…"

And then, he swung up onto Lobo's back. Riding southwest, he was not so much heading anywhere in particular as he was trying to leave the atrocity at Poplar Flats behind him. Relentlessly, he drove Lobo to get as far away from the horror as fast as the mighty stallion could pound out the miles.

But…no horse, however fast or unfailing, can outrun the thoughts, the emotions, or the memories a man carries in his head, his heart and his soul.

The wholesale, wanton massacre had destroyed something, some innocence he'd always managed to hold onto, no matter what had ever happened to him. He'd believed in the honour of the community he'd lived within for more than twenty years, the decency and fairness of the institution within which he'd grown into manhood. He'd once worn that uniform so proudly - the same uniform that had just massacred more than a hundred innocent children. The savagery of it, the callous cruelty tore at him, so that he was certain his soul would never be whole again. And he knew, without doubt, that this day would haunt him for the rest of his life as he remembered the voices of those women and children screaming in helpless terror, and their faces in death, not understanding why they were being ridden down and ruthlessly murdered.

Rutherford and others could self-righteously claim that it had all been for the greater good - but **_nothing_** could ever make it **_right!_**

Finally, miles away, he understood he couldn't outrun the horror and he pulled up, dropping from the saddle to his knees, vomiting over the hot prairie grass. He retched over and over, until there was nothing but dry heaves and he could scarcely breathe. Exhausted, feeling dead inside, he sank back on his haunches and lifted his tear-stained face to the empty sky. In those moments, he honestly believed that he'd never be able to feel anything but fury and a sick conviction that he had failed in the most hideous of ways. Any shred of innocence that might have still lingered in his soul had been seared by the flames of betrayal and wholly annihilated. Never again would his wounded heart be able to love, for all love, all trust that he'd ever felt, had been charred into ashes back at Poplar Flats.

Something fragile, yet essential, had broken within him over the past twenty-four hours, leaving him angry and hurt, ashamed for ever having been such a fool as to trust the institution he'd served - with all that he was - to use its power wisely, to not be corrupted by it. He'd never shirked any task, never refused a posting, even to the most remote or miserable of outposts, had fought in the most heart-breaking of wars. He had even chosen never to marry, never to have a family of his own, believing it wasn't right to offer a woman his life and strength, and then leave her alone in some godforsaken, dreary fort in the middle of nowhere while he went off to do his duty to his nation. But this institution, that he'd believed was worth any sacrifice to serve with honour and devotion, after all was said and done, was only as good and as brave and as compassionate as the men who led it - and it seemed to him that, ultimately, it was true that men are corrupted by unlimited power. He'd believed his whole life in nothing but a lie…worse, in something that had become evil and corrupted, a means to destroy innocence rather than safeguard and uphold its sacred trust.

Bitterly, he asked himself how he could be surprised. After all, it was with a lie that he'd begun his career, to find a measure of personal peace and purpose that had never existed in his home, when he'd claimed to be sixteen years old when he'd signed up on his thirteenth birthday. And now, after fully twenty-two years during which the military had been his life, his home and his reason for being, his career had ended with the lie of peace that he'd helped feed to Running Deer and his people.

Ellison swore then that he'd never again subordinate himself to another, nor would he ever trust anything or anyone to act only with selfless honour and decency.

Finally, weary to his soul, he yet straightened his shoulders and climbed to his feet, mounted Lobo and continued his aimless journey to the southwest. He couldn't do anything more for those pitiful souls behind him but, he vowed in that dark hour, he would spend the rest of his life atoning for that horror by dedicating his life to the protection of others. He was only one man, and one man couldn't make all the wrongs right. But for so long as he lived, he would do his best to honour the innocent women and children who had died by defending those who still lived. It wouldn't be enough, would never be enough, but it was the best that he could do. Perhaps if he could live a life, and maybe die, safeguarding the defenceless, perhaps then his life might yet have some worth.

Profoundly angry and thoroughly disillusioned, it was a hard, embittered man who rode hell-bent across the prairie that day…one who felt lost and had no idea anymore where he belonged or what his life was for.

All he knew was that he had to make it count for **_something_**.

* * *

Simon Banks, a tall, vigorous man in his middle years, had just come out of the barn with his partner, Joel Taggart, when they looked up to see one of the hands, Rafe - sometimes known as 'Dude', for his flashy way of dressing and almost eerily immaculate appearance even when riding the range - turning the wagon in through the main arched gate of the Gold Ribbon Ranch. Having expected to see the wagon loaded with their biweekly supplies from town, Banks frowned to see the buckboard was empty.

"Dude, you run into a problem?" he called out, he and Taggart reaching the wagon just as Rafe climbed down.

"Yeah, Simon," the younger man replied with a look of deep concern in his eyes and a modest air of uncertain deference. He'd signed on only recently and was still uncomfortable referring to his employers by their given names; neither held with much formality, and both were dead set against being called 'boss'. "There're yellow rags posted all 'round the perimeter outside'a town. Didn't figure I should go in - but I'm worried about how sick folks must be."

"Yellow rags?" Banks repeated, his eyes widening in anxious surprise as he shook his head and looked at Joel.

"Must be somethin' pretty bad," the older man murmured, also looking shocked and very worried. They had a lot of friends in Bitterwood Creek.

"Uh-huh," Banks grunted as he rubbed his chin. "Rafe, saddle up Chance for me, would you? I think I'll mosey on into town and see if they can use some help."

"Simon, I'm not sure that's wise," Joel cautioned, concern for his old friend evident in his voice and eyes. "We have no idea what the sickness is - you could catch it yourself!"

"Could, I suppose," Simon shrugged philosophically as he tipped his Stetson back and looked out over the horizon toward town. "But they ain't got no doctor and it's likely they need some help. They been good to us over the years, made us welcome. Maybe it's time for a little payback."

"Fine. Then I'll go with you," Taggart said staunchly, turning toward the corral.

Banks smiled warmly but caught the older man's arm, stopping him. "Uh-uh," he refused, though his appreciation of Joel's willingness to back him up on this, as in all else, glowed from his eyes and warmed his voice, "One of us needs to stay here, to look after things. Don't fuss - I'll be all right. You know I'm too mean and contrary to die so easily!"

Taggart chuckled and shook his head. "All right, if you say so - but if I ain't heard from you in two days, I'm comin' in."

"Fair enough," Banks nodded. "If it looks like they need more help than one strong back can give 'em, I'll send Chance on home with a note in his saddlebag, letting you know what we need."

A few minutes later, the big man mounted the glossy palomino he'd named in whimsical tribute to the luck that had brought them great good fortune, and headed into Bitterwood Creek.

* * *

Doc Sandburg hadn't gotten much sleep the past two nights, just a few winks caught here and there when exhaustion slowed him down enough to remain in one place for five or ten minutes at a time. With so many patients, it seemed he'd just finish his rounds of the town when it was time to start over again. Five more kids had needed urgent tracheotomies to keep from suffocating to death. But, he was thankful that the prophylactic treatment he'd prescribed for the rest was beginning to have positive effects - and so far, there'd only been two new patients added to the list of the ill. As the children grew a little stronger, less dehydrated and exhausted from the simple fight to breathe, they were able to eat, and that made them stronger still. Blair suggested thickening their broth with moldy bread to make a thin gruel, as he'd learned inadvertently over the years that moldy bread, or cheese, had some properties that somehow seemed to help folks fight off an infection.

Blair had honestly been surprised at how quickly the populace of Bitterwood Creek had accepted him and his directions for their care, but he understood that their need of him - well, of his skills - had overridden their disquiet at his evident youth…and his heritage. Nevertheless, he knew it was hard for them to trust a Jewish kid the way they had Old Doc Wilkins, but they didn't have a whole lot of choice. Accordingly, he took care to be personable as well as competent, quietly confident as he showed them that he knew what he was doing - no more had died since he'd arrived in town - and the good Lord knew, he'd certainly arrived when he'd been most needed. If some of the townspeople thought it odd to see a Jew treating sick people in their church, they kept their thoughts and opinions to themselves - or at least, most of the 'easily unsettled' didn't air their views where he could hear them, and Sandburg appreciated the courtesy.

Maybe, he thought whimsically, they were reminding themselves that their Saviour had also been a Jew.

He was good with the kids, teasing them into soft laughter, and gentle with the old folk, kindness soft in his eyes. He could talk up a storm, always asking questions, about the history of the community and where folks had come from, getting them to relax as they talked about themselves. But he didn't say a whole lot about himself; the thing was, he kept the conversations going so well, nobody really noticed, not at first, anyway. What mattered most to the folks in Bitterwood Creek, at least in these days of crisis, was that he was the doctor they sorely needed.

 _One thing about an epidemic,_ he thought ironically as he yawned in the early light of dawn on his third day in town, not yet having made it to his new bed, _you sure get to know people in a hurry._

He trudged down the quiet street and let himself into the office, heading on through and up to his bed. The spread of the illness had finally stabilized enough, his patients regaining sufficient strength, that he could get some much-needed rest. Exhausted, he did no more than kick off his boots before he sank down on the deliciously comfortable bed, already asleep before his head hit the feather pillow.

He woke with a jerk, alarmed and wondering why, when he heard the sharp scream again.

"What the…" he muttered blearily, scrambling to the window and pulling on his boots as he looked down on the street below.

Instead of the typically empty street he'd become accustomed to, there were half a dozen horses hitched at the rail outside the bank. Maisie Dunning, the feisty but very kind, middle-aged widow who ran the bakery and eatery beside the financial institution, was struggling to get away from a man who had a solid arm around her neck - but her struggles stopped cold when he put the barrel of his gun to her head.

Appalled, Blair turned and clattered quickly down the steep wooden steps and out the door of his office. Then, walking calmly, slowly, he began to cross the street, but stopped in the middle when the six-gun was leveled at him.

"What's going on, here?" Sandburg asked soberly as he lifted his hands in the air to signal he was no threat, if not in surrender. "What do you want?"

* * *

Ellison had ridden all the previous day, stopping only to water Lobo at the edge of a river, until dusk had begun to fall. Pulling up by the banks of a tree-sheltered creek, Jim unsaddled his stallion and rubbed him down, then let him loose to chomp on the long grass. Pulling his fishing line and hooks out of his saddlebag, he found a slim branch that suited his need and made himself a fishing pole. Less than twenty minutes later, he was grilling perch over a small fire. It was full dark when he finally rolled up in his blanket to stare through the leafy branches at the stars.

When he woke at dawn, he caught another fish for breakfast, and then kicked out his fire. Saddling and mounting up, he kept riding, south and west.

Wanting some decent food - as in cooked by somebody else - when the sun climbed high and hot, Ellison pulled up on a low rise to get his bearings. Spotting a small town in the distance, he headed toward it, slowing when he got closer and saw the tattered yellow flag. But when he heard a woman screaming and then shots, he urged Lobo back into a fast gallop, not even noticing when they raced past the yellow warning to stay away.

It occurred to him that the poor folks in the town up ahead had no end of trouble - first the sickness and now some bastard was terrorizing a woman and shooting up the town. Well, Ellison thought as he rode hell-bent toward danger, he might not be good for much, and he didn't know why he was alive, but he did know that he could fight - in fact, he was _itching_ for a fight. He hadn't been able to help the women and children in Poplar Flats, but he sure as hell could try to help the woman who sounded so terrified in the town up ahead…

* * *

During the easy, half-hour ride, Banks gazed out over the land he'd come to love. It was different, very different, from the rich green and well-treed country he'd been born in. South Carolina was a pretty place, with rolling hills, rich farmland and temperate weather. A very pretty place, that he had no interest -whatsoever - in ever seeing again. For Banks had been born a field slave on a cotton plantation, his daddy sold off before he'd even been born. And, when he was only seven years old, his mama had died from a beating she'd received from their master when she'd fought back in despairing disgust, having had enough of his foul lust one night. Bravely, Simon had tried to stop the brute, but had been flung back against the wall of their shack, and soundly whipped, for his efforts.

It had been a hard, mean life, one without hope of anything better. He'd learned, as they'd all learned, to bow and scrape, to say, 'Yes, Massa', 'No, Massa', 'Yes, Boss' or 'No, Boss', and to act too dumb to think. It was the only kind of resistance realistically open to them, to move slowly, make mistakes, screw things up, be a nuisance. It was a fine balance, sometimes, walking the narrow edge of passive resistance - go too far one way, and you got a beating for not working hard enough. Go too far the other way, and you got a beating for being uppity and angry. It hadn't been easy for him to learn to keep the fire of hate from his eyes, no, not easy at all - not easy to learn to act stupid, either, for that matter.

As the years passed and he grew so big, so fast, he figured he must have scared the overseer, probably because he looked, and most assuredly was, a mite too much to handle. So…he was sold off at the age of fourteen, marched in chains to another plantation in West Virginia. Also, Banks reflected mildly as his thoughts drifted over the years long past, a very pretty country of rolling hills thick with forest that turned crimson and gold in the fall, and was bedazzled by snow in the depths of relatively mild winters. It was on the tobacco plantation in West Virginia that he'd met Joel Taggart, a youth older than him, poised on the edge of manhood. Though they were almost of a size at that time, Joel had taken to looking out for him, just as if Simon was his kid brother. Smiling fondly, Banks reflected that Joel had always been too kind for his own good. There just wasn't any meanness in the man, never had been, and he'd always seemed wise, somehow. He never did let the anger eat at him, didn't even seem to get angry - unless it was on someone else's behalf, when no man of conscience could stand back and watch excesses of wretched abuse go on.

It was that innate decency that had gotten Joel into trouble two years later, standing up for the younger Banks when he'd mouthed off once too often one morning in the back corner of the field, and was about to have his brains clubbed out of his head by the irate overseer. Joel had probably saved his life that day, but then had been forced to tie himself to a post in the field, and whipped where he stood for his courage or, as the overseer had screamed in rage, for his insolence in interfering with his betters.

Simon, consumed by a red haze of guilt, fury and despair, couldn't take any more. He wasn't going to just stand there and watch Joel be whipped to death, not on his account - not for anything in the world.

Without thinking, he'd picked up a rock from the earth at his feet and bashed the overseer on the back of the head, laying him out cold. Untying Joel, who was only semiconscious at best, he'd slung the older youth over his shoulder and lit out into the forest - and had kept running for a long, long time, much of it up to his knees in the woods-shrouded river that led away from the estate and up into the hills, to keep the dogs from getting their scent. As he'd raced to freedom, he didn't know if he'd killed the man with that rock but was only bothered by the fact that he didn't much care.

He cared for Joel and physically supported him on their desperate journey, until the nineteen-year-old could run on his own. And then they'd run side by side, scrambling through the brambles of the forests and over the long hills, for weeks and weeks, to put that pretty country behind them. They'd chosen to run west rather than north, because it was always assumed that runaways headed north to the free states or even further to the lands held by the British and the French. Most of the runaways got caught and hauled back, especially if they didn't have the good fortune to find the brave people who ran the Underground Railroad.

It was a risk to head west, but Simon and Joel were lucky - they were never caught. One night, though neither of them was proud of it, they broke into an old schoolhouse and stole a few of the books, the ones used to teach little kids how to read. They knew they had to learn, that ignorance was dangerous. So, mostly attributable to Joel's patience and good humour, they figured out the books, and taught themselves how to read and write. As for figuring, well, they'd learned how to do that for themselves long past - adding and subtracting, multiplying and dividing how many sacks of tobacco or cotton they had to pick to pass muster, or how many slaves it would take to get a job done in the time allowed, given the size of the job. It was all about survival - and not being as stupid as they were believed to be. _Not stupid, at all,_ Simon chuckled in retrospect. Now that, thank God, they were **_all_** free, he was able to remember those hateful days with a certain pride that he and his people had been able to survive by using their wits to fool the so-called superior white folk. _A hell of a lot smarter than the dumb-ass overseers and masters who never caught on to our act!_

Once they got into 'free' territory where slavery was outlawed, they were able to stop grubbing for food and look for paying work. Big as they were, and young, they were strong and they both sure knew how to give an honest day's labour. With a yen to see the world, as well as to keep moving far away from the South, they took jobs stringing telegraph wire across the West, all the way to San Francisco. Then, with their wages in their jeans, they thought about what they'd do next. Gold was all the rage then and, though it was risky, they decided to take a chance and used every dime they had to grubstake themselves.

Not having a clue, really, about what they were doing, they'd headed into the gold country high in the mountains of California, with a mule and the mining tools they'd bought, and staked a claim. It was hard, backbreaking work, but they didn't care. Joel discovered a hidden talent for explosives, able to discern how much dynamite to use and where it needed to be placed to blow out a tunnel without bringing the whole damned mountain down on their heads.

Within a year, their gamble paid off. They struck it rich. **_Very_** rich - a broad ribbon of pure gold so wide and so long that, for the longest time, they'd just stood and stared at it, shaking their heads and wondering if they were dreaming.

Laughing like fools after they realized what they had, they'd left the mine at the end of the day, sat back by their fire under the stars and talked and talked. About the country they'd seen, as they'd come west - about the kind of hopes they had, now that they didn't have to bury their dreams as so much childish drivel. They'd seen the vast, mighty Pacific, and had stood in awe of its power, but they didn't want to go to sea as captains, or even owners, of merchant trading ships. The mountains were majestic, but the massive piles of granite left the young men feeling crowded, overshadowed, trapped somehow - and then they remembered the rolling Kansas plains with the wide-open, clear blue sky. A man could see for miles in every direction, and never feel locked in. Not interested in ever digging another row to hoe, they'd decided to run a herd of cattle.

Anxious to get on with their dreams, after they'd hauled their first heavy load of gold to the assayers in Sacramento, they'd sold their claim for a fortune and, feeling like kings, they rode in style in a succession of stagecoaches headed back east, until they reached Wichita. There, at the land registry office, they selected and paid for 250,000 acres of prime grazing land in the middle of nowhere, and then went on to the stockyards to buy their first herd of cattle, and horses for a remuda. When they started driving their small herd across the prairie, they didn't know any more about cattle ranching than they'd known about gold mining, but they were smart, and they learned fast. Banks chuckled in memory as he recalled some of the misadventures of their youth - hell, it had been a challenge just to learn how to stay on top of an ornery horse, let alone master the intricacies of ranching. But, smiling with quiet satisfaction, he reflected that they **_had_** learned.

And now, here they were, owners of the largest spread between the Mississippi and Wichita with no fears of ever feeling crowded or boxed in again.

Contemplating the town up ahead, and the folks who were now fighting some kind of raging sickness, Simon thought about the early days, oh, more than fifteen years ago now. The white folk had been distinctly standoffish at first, wary of them because of their colour. But Joel never paid it no mind. He was always one of the first ones there when a barn had to go up, or new settlers were felling wood to build their house, and he had always dragged Simon along.

"They'll get used to us, in time," he'd say. "Give 'em a chance." If anybody put them down for their colour, and Simon would angrily ask how his partner could stand the insults that drove him into a fury, Joel would just shrug and ask, "What do I care what they think? I know what kind of man I am." And then he'd put his hand on his friend's shoulder, saying with all seriousness, "Simon, you gotta learn to let it go. There're fools and bigots all over this world, and that's their bad luck. You can't let their opinions matter to you. T'ain't worth the time it'd take to deal with 'em, and be about as useful as spittin' into the wind. I got better things t' do. An' so do you."

It was Joel who had won the townspeople over with his steady good nature and patience, his humour and his enduring sense of himself as a man of integrity. It shone through in everything about him - his kindness and good sense, his pure and simple decency - it was all there in his eyes, slow smile and thoughtful manner for everyone to see. Over the years, wariness had grown to acceptance, acceptance to liking, and then to respect. Simon had watched it happen and counted himself lucky to have a friend to teach and guide him, and who took him along for the ride as Joel built rock solid relationships with their neighbours. And, in time, Simon had learned to let his anger go, and found a kind of peace in this land, with these people. Now, when some smart-mouthed stranger carried on in a superior way just because they were white, the townspeople didn't take it or let it ride. The strangers were set down and told what was what and they could either stay or go, but if they stayed, well, then, they were expected to learn some better manners.

Those people were suffering now and needed help. Joel had done the hard work in the beginning for both of them, gaining their neighbours' trust and friendship. Simon figured this was his chance to give a little back. Besides, he was younger, bigger and stronger than Joel. If one of them had to risk getting sick, better it be him than the man he couldn't love more than if Joel had been his brother by blood.

He'd just passed one of the dusty and ragged yellow bandanas hanging from posts planted around the town, when he heard shots ring out, shattering the quiet of the day…

* * *

Sheriff Jeb Strong had heard Maisie's first scream and had come running from home. But by the time he arrived and took cover behind a wagon in front of the General Store, the new doctor was already standing in the middle of the street, trying to distract the stranger's attention from the clearly terrorized woman. Studying the horses outside of the bank, not recognizing any of them, Jeb cursed under his breath. Some gang of outlaws, who figured to take advantage of a town already under siege by an invisible enemy, had evidently decided to rob the bank when nobody was looking. Poor Maisie must have either been passing by or, curious about the strangers, had wandered out for a look, and realized belatedly what was going down. The ruffian who held her had to be the lookout, left outside with the horses. He appeared to be about twenty, scruffy and scared. Not a good combination. Jeb sure wished he knew how many innocent people were being held hostage inside the bank, their lives now hanging in the balance, too.

Licking his lips, his heavy Colt .45 steady in his hand, Jeb tried to figure the odds of everyone getting out of this mess safe, with the notable exception of the six bank robbers themselves, and didn't like the probabilities.

"Jeb?" Marcus Candling hissed from just inside the barbershop behind him. "What'cha gonna to do?"

Sheriff Strong snorted softly. Marcus was a good-natured old coot, but this wasn't exactly the time to start up a conversation. His attention focused sharply back on the business at hand when he saw the gang's lookout level his gun with the obvious intention of shooting Sandburg, and Jeb knew he had to act. Stepping away from the wagon, he leveled his gun at the villain. "Drop it, mister, or you're dead," he said, his voice as steady as his hand.

As the gun barrel began to swing toward him, Maisie, bless her, must have felt the kid trembling and maybe felt his grip on her loosen. Probably terrified to her toes but as feisty as ever, she elbowed him in the brisket, hard and sharp, and then stomped on his boot. Startled, distracted, the grip of his arm around her throat fell away and she darted aside, stumbling to her knees.

But the gun barrel started to level toward him again, and Jeb had no choice but to shoot first - and one more young outlaw would never grow old. Yelling at Sandburg to get out of the street, he dropped back down behind the wagon immediately, knowing action from the bank would be next - and there were five of them and only one of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he was glad to see Sandburg hustle swiftly across the street as the new young doctor scrambled to practically carry the plump Maisie into the safety of her bakeshop.

"Back off or we'll kill the clerk!" a gruff voice shouted from inside the bank, giving the Sheriff more information than perhaps he'd intended. Clerks weren't usually the first victims threatened in a holdup unless there wasn't much other choice.

Jeb blew out a long breath, fighting for calm. It was almost noon, so he figured Sam Sloane, the manager, had already gone home for lunch. Nobody in town was doing much business with so many down sick, so there'd be nothing to have kept him at the bank. One of his boys and his daughter were two of the sick children Jeb's Susannah was nursing, while Sam's wife, Sarah, had taken in their son who had not fallen ill. So, Sam would want to get home early, to check on his kids and make sure Sarah wasn't wearing herself ragged trying to watch over kids who were restless with healthy energy. That meant the clerk, feckless Clive Tucker, was likely alone inside.

"You kill anyone and you'll hang!" Jeb called back. "Toss out your weapons and come out with your hands up!"

Harsh laughter and the whine of a bullet whizzing by his head was the only response he got.

Suddenly, another voice intruded from behind him, low but firm, "I spotted a window in back of the bank that I can lever open to sneak inside - give me a minute to get back over there and then distract them."

Jeb turned and saw a tall stranger with cool blue eyes crouched by the wall in the shadows of the narrow alley between the store and the barbershop. He was dressed in worn jeans and a long, black duster that didn't quite conceal the Colt on his left hip - a match for the one in his right hand - and a black Stetson was pulled low over his eyes.

"Who're you?" Jeb hissed back.

He got a slight, ironic smile in response. "Does it matter?" And then the stranger slipped quickly back into the shadows, as silent as a ghost.

Jeb blinked, and then looked down the street to see Simon Banks leaping off his golden stallion, his fist already gripping his Winchester as he crouched low and nodded to the Sheriff. Strong grinned as he sketched Simon a quick salute and then held up one palm to signal the older man to wait, thinking things were definitely looking up and the odds of winning this fight had just gotten a whole lot better.

Checking his pocket watch, he gave the tall stranger his minute and then, not wanting to risk hitting Clive or the mysterious Good Samaritan, he leveled a shot over the roof of the bank rather than through the fancy plate-glass window. Immediately, shots rang out in response…and there went Sam's expensive window in a shower of glass. He'd not be pleased with having to replace it, Jeb thought wryly.

Shouting and a single sharp shot rang out from inside the bank, followed by a flurry of others, and then the door was flung wide as four outlaws made a break for it. Bullets whined and ricocheted around the street as they blasted their way out, rushing toward their horses. The animals, panicking, terrified by the gunplay, were bucking wildly in desperate attempts to pull free of the reins tying them to the hitching rail; one succeeded and bolted down the dusty street, while the others neighed and heaved in a frenzy, effectively blocking both Jeb and Simon's aim. One outlaw leapt onto the back of his mount, and whirled to race away - Jeb stood to shoot him down before he could escape - and the bandit's arms flew out as he stiffened, toppling from the saddle to lie still in the dust. Meanwhile, the tall stranger had chased out of the bank on the heels of the bandits, tackling one and rolling with him onto the boardwalk. Simon had gotten a bead on another robber and blew him back against the wall. But still another was at the same moment taking advantage of Jeb's distraction on the runaway and shot the Sheriff, even as another muffled explosion sounded from the men wrestling on the planks. The outlaw's own weapon had discharged into his gut just as Jeb felt a blistering burn slam into his gun arm and he spun around, hitting the dust hard. Simon's rifle cracked again but, in the confusing mêlée of shifting, bucking horses, he missed the last outlaw still standing. Conscious, struggling to rise, Jeb saw the Good Samaritan twisting to bring his Colt into line, just as the last outlaw shot him in the back - with a startled, strangled shout of pain, the stranger dropped like a stone; a split second later, Simon's rifle exploded again, bringing the last bandit down.

The horses still bucked and neighed shrilly but the guns had silenced as gunsmoke lifted on the light wind, acrid against the smell of blood and hot sand. Doc Sandburg, pale with the shock of the sudden violence, slipped out of Maisie's place just as Clive poked his head around the open bank doorway, looking like he was in still in one piece, if a bit green around the gills. His people safe, Jeb slumped back and curled to protect his shattered arm, the fingers of his left hand stained red as he tried to stem the tide of blood pouring from the wound just above his wrist. Damn, but it hurt. Simon ran up to check out the bodies while Doc came toward him, but he called back, his voice strained with the pain. "See to the stranger. He saved Clive's life!"

Jeb heard Clive gabbling to Simon, with all the excitement of one who was sure he was going to die only to surprise himself by still being alive, "There's another dead one in here!"

And then Jeb's world went gray…

* * *

At the direction of a kid he didn't know, but who had suddenly taken charge of the wounded, Simon carried Jeb into the Doctor's Office and on back to the surgery to lay him on a cot. Clive, Marcus and the kid carried in the stranger who'd been shot in the shoulder, the bullet gone clear through, so he was bleeding heavily both from the front and the back. The battle had been fast, and Simon wouldn't have known the guy was on their side if first Jeb, and then Clive, hadn't been so quick to say he'd saved the bank clerk's life. The stranger was laid, straightaway, on the raised operating table in the middle of the whitewashed infirmary that had big windows to let in the light and a black woodstove in the corner. Wryly, Simon reflected that Bitterwood Creek seemed to be having a run on strangers coming to town - the kid, the Good Samaritan, and six dead outlaws nobody would miss. It was odd, he thought in passing, that _none_ of them had been dissuaded by the yellow bandanas blowing their, apparently, very much unheeded warning to stay away.

Much to his surprise, the kid turned out to be a doctor who had, according to Marcus, turned up out of the blue, two days ago. The new doctor quickly checked out the stranger, and then Jeb, while simultaneously asking Simon about the condition of the wounded outside.

"They're dead and in no hurry to be seen to," Simon drawled in reply. "How's Jeb?"

The kid shook his head, his lips set in a grim line. "He'll live, but I don't know how much use he'll have of his right hand," he replied quietly just before Jeb's wife, Suzannah, came flying in, her eyes wide with fear. Sandburg reassured her calmly and put her to work, cleaning the blood off her husband's arm.

"And the stranger?" Simon continued, looking at the unconscious man on the table in the center of the room.

"He'll live, too - he was lucky. The bullet caught him high in the shoulder, and went right through without shattering anything," the kid replied as he quickly stoked the fire in the stove, put a kettle on to boil and sorted out his instruments on a worktable by the stove, dropping the ones he chose into the already steaming pot. Next he pulled a high stack of towels and bandages from a cupboard, leaving some on the table by Jeb's cot, and the rest on the small workbench next to the stranger.

"I'm Simon Banks," he introduced himself to the young man who appeared to be a virtual whirlwind of perpetual motion.

The kid spared him a quick smile as he nodded and paused long enough to hold out his hand. "Well, you sure arrived in the nick of time! Glad to meet you. I'm Blair Sandburg, your new doctor."

"You need any help here, Doc?" Banks asked as he shook the kid's hand, impressed with the firm, dry grip.

"I'd appreciate it, Mr. Banks," Sandburg replied, and put him to work undressing the stranger and washing the blood from his matching wounds, while the kid first tied back his long curls with a leather thong, and then rolled up his sleeves before washing his own hands and forearms.

"Just call me, Simon," he offered, and the kid grinned again as he nodded.

Two hours later, both injured men had been tended to, their wounds cleaned, dusted with herbs and sulfa powder, sutured and securely bandaged. As he helped the doctor by holding retractors, Simon marveled at the skill and quiet efficiency of the young man. The bones in Jeb's arm had been badly shattered, and Simon swallowed hard with pity when he saw the extent of the damage, thinking an amputation was the only possible option. But, patiently and painstakingly, the kid swiftly worked the slivered bits back into line as best he could; reconstructing what was left before thoroughly dousing the wound with sulfa powder. Closing the wound, he wrapped it tightly, and then splinted the arm securely and wrapped it with more bandages. Simon looked up to meet the young physician's eyes when he finished, the question plain in his own.

"Worth a try," the kid murmured, flicking a sideways look at Suzannah who was sitting stiff as a statue across the room. "We'll see if it heals. Depends on whether any infection sets in."

When Sandburg had to go out to see to his other patients in town, Simon offered to stay and keep Suzannah company, while they watched over the unconscious men. Blair, as he'd asked Simon to call him, nodded gratefully as he picked up his black medical bag and headed out, saying he'd be back in an hour or so.

Shortly after he'd gone, Strong started to stir, clearly coming back to painful consciousness.

"Easy, Jeb," Simon Banks soothed as the Sheriff grimaced and moaned softly.

Suzannah Stone breathed out a shivery sigh to see her man waking up as she brushed an errant tear from her face with her fingertips before leaning forward to plant a kiss on her husband's cheek. "Honey, you need anything?" she whispered as she clutched his left arm and hand.

Jeb groaned softly against the pain in his right arm, biting his lip as he blinked and cut a quick look down to see if everything was still there. He smiled, if weakly, as he then gazed up at his wife, to reassure her before he turned to Simon. "The stranger?" he murmured hoarsely, his voice weak and strained.

"He'll do just fine, Jeb, don't you worry," Simon assured him. "The robbers all died tryin' to escape, so there's nothin' for you to do but rest and get well. Y'hear?"

When Jeb nodded, his gaze going back to Suzannah's, Simon stood to move away, giving them some privacy as he turned to the stranger and pulled a straight-backed chair up beside his cot. The man's wounds - front and back - had been stitched up, and the kid thought he'd heal clean. His left arm had been bound over his chest to keep his wounded shoulder still.

 _Damn, I've got to stop thinkin' of the new Doc as a 'kid',_ Simon thought, shaking his head. _Even if he does look like he should still be in boardin' school somewhere._ Studying the fair-haired stranger, he wondered then, _And who might you be?_

Having undressed the man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties, Banks had his theories. The stranger didn't have the roughly calloused hands of a labourer; so he wasn't a hard labourer; no ingrained dirt under his nails, so not a farmer. His clothing was well worn but in good condition, his boots well crafted. He'd also worn a pretty pair of Colts - with bone handles to improve the grip - on hand-tooled belts and, from what Clive had said of the sharpshooting in the bank, he knew how to use them. The man had three other old bullet wounds scattered over his body and, given the look of him, he'd undoubtedly served in the War. No way to tell whether for the North or the South, though. Lean, in good shape, clean-shaven, with a magnificent horse they assumed was his tied down the back alley by the bank, and good quality saddlebags, not fancy, just well made. Gunslinger, maybe, but one who had actively chosen to fight on the right side, rather than ride the other way to save his own skin. Curiously, Banks eyed the saddlebags now lying in the corner on the other side of the narrow bed.

But he didn't want to invade the man's privacy.

So he bided his time and waited for the stranger to wake up.

* * *

By the time Sandburg got back, Jeb was making noises about wanting to go home. Suzannah looked up hopefully, immediately assuring Blair that she could take care of her husband, and pointing out that Doc had more than enough to do, what with the man in the other bed and all the sick ones in town. Reluctantly, Blair nodded.

"Okay, but I want to know immediately if a fever starts," he ordered them both firmly, and then handed Suzannah a small, cork-stoppered vial of laudanum. "Just two drops, mind, no more than every four to six hours for the pain - and three at bedtime, to help you sleep. I'll be over in the morning to redress your arm." Looking across the room at Banks, he asked, "Would you mind giving Jeb a hand home? I want to check on our mysterious good guy. And, thanks, Simon, for all your help today."

"I'll drop back later," Simon replied as he steadied Jeb onto his feet and took most of the man's weight as they slowly moved from the room. Suzannah had run ahead to get things ready at home.

Once they'd gone, his eyes narrowed in thought as Blair wandered over to stare down at the still unconscious man, and he wondered why the stranger hadn't yet awakened. Sitting down, he noted the deep lines of pain around the mouth and eyes - unusual in a man still so deeply unconscious - but Sandburg didn't really want to give him anything until he was awake and Blair could find out if he'd ever had reactions to medications - it was possible that he was still out cold because of an exaggerated reaction to the ether he'd inhaled - as well as how often he'd been on painkillers in the past. Laudanum was a blessing, but could also be a problem. People grew used to it, needing and then wanting more and more to do any good, until they couldn't function without it, so Blair was very cautious with its use. Still, the degree of pain his patient was experiencing bothered Sandburg, and he wondered if there was something else going on, besides the wound, that was tormenting the man. He'd also noticed the faint rash of irritated skin all over the man's body, which could be another clue that he was reacting to something, his clothes maybe. Some people couldn't wear wool, but then he hadn't been wearing wool. Concerned that the rash might signal illness, Blair reached to touch the man's forehead, but so far there was no fever. He took his patient's pulse, fingers light on the lax wrist, and found it strong and steady. Laying his hand on the stranger's right arm, gripping lightly, he asked softly, _"Why aren't you awake?"_

And then, as there was little else he could do, he just kept talking to the guy, idle chatter mostly about the aborted robbery, his tone low and melodious, hoping the sound of his voice would draw the man back to consciousness.

* * *

The late evening sun was streaming in from the window an hour or so before sundown, bathing Sandburg - and the patient he watched over - in soft golden light. Blair had done another quick round of his other patients, Simon sitting in to watch over the stranger, and had just gotten back awhile ago, so Simon had gone to find his dinner with friends in town. Really starting to worry about why his patient had not yet awakened, Sandburg occupied himself by smoothing calamine lotion over the man's irritated skin, again talking incessantly, this time about the people he'd been meeting in Bitterwood Creek, and his relief that most of his patients seemed to have turned the corner toward health.

With a groan, the man finally stirred, blinking and then wincing painfully against the light hitting his face. Flinching away from it, his right hand coming up to cover his eyes, he moaned, "Too bright."

Hastily, Sandburg stood to close the shades, muting the light in the room. As he did, he said, "Hey, I'm glad you're finally waking up - you had me worried."

The man grimaced, hoarsely muttering, "I can hear you - no need to shout."

Sandburg frowned as he returned to the bed and looked down at the stranger and then back at the window, thinking that the sun hadn't seemed all that bright to him. Nor had he been shouting, just speaking in a normal voice. Sinking down onto the chair by the bed, he poured some water into a clay mug from the pitcher he'd put on the little side table and supported his patient's head while he helped the man drink. Murmuring softly, he told his patient, "I'm Dr. Blair Sandburg and this is my infirmary. You were shot in the hold-up, but you're going to be fine. I'm sorry, but I don't know your name."

"Ellison, Jim Ellison," his patient grunted as he gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, and then swallowed hard, as if he felt nauseated. "What stinks so bad in here?" he suddenly choked out, nearly gagging, as he grimaced in evident disgust.

"Medicines, probably," Sandburg replied softly, sniffing the air himself and finding it slightly astringent but not anything too offensive; but then, he was used to the smells of his profession. In deference to his patient's sensitivities to the odours, wanting to make the man comfortable, he got up and moved an armful of bottles of ether, disinfectants, laudanum and herbs back into the small storeroom between the surgery and the office, closing the door when he returned to Ellison. Sitting back down, he studied Jim Ellison, a thoughtful look of speculation on his face. "Do you sometimes find your sense of taste is too strong?" he asked after a moment.

"Yeah, sometimes," Ellison grated, in too much pain to worry about the oddness of the question.

"I want to give you something for your pain, but first, I need to know if you've ever had any bad reactions to any medicines," Blair murmured.

Ellison swallowed and then ground out, "No drugs. Knock me out too long. I'll manage."

Sandburg rubbed his hand over his mouth and then stood to pace while he thought about his patient's odd reactions to the stimuli of light, sound, smell, taste and, from the look of his skin, touch. Gazing at Ellison, he could see the man was rigid with pain, and Sandburg couldn't stand to see him suffering so badly. There had to be something he could do for him. Biting his lip as he squinted in thought, he absently pushed his wild hair behind his ears. He recalled reading a book from a library, oh, years ago now, when he'd been first become curious about the world and the people who lived in it. It had been by an explorer, a man named Burton, who had written of his travels in Central and South America. That book had been about men Burton had called sentinels, warriors with enhanced sensory awareness who spent their lives protecting their tribes. Finding the concept fascinating, Blair had searched out other similar phenomena, and had found a good number of stories in many ancient cultural reference books including those of his own heritage, which had told about the watchers who were the sons of fallen angels, and had been born to literally 'watch over' humankind. He'd thought it might all be myth and legend, exaggerated for effect. Still, over the years, he'd met people who had one or two enhanced senses - but he'd never met anyone, until now, with all five.

Returning to the bedside, again sitting, he offered quietly, "I think your senses of perception might be out of control, heightened to levels of discomfort. I want to try something, but you'll have to listen carefully and really try to do what I ask you. I'm hoping it will help cut down the pain you're feeling. Okay?"

"Sure," Ellison gritted. At that point, he was willing to try anything that might help diminish the agony he was suffering. His head was pounding and it felt like his skin was on fire. Nausea curled and clenched in his gut and the wound itself was a torment, pure and simple.

"Okay, first I want you to take some slow, deep breaths…slow! That's it," Blair whispered as he unconsciously laid a light hand on Ellison's right shoulder to reassure him. "You're doing good. Now, as you take the slow breaths, I want you to feel the muscles in your feet and lower legs. They're tight with tension; as you blow out, I want you to feel the tension ease out of the muscles, like it was water flowing out of the soles of your feet." Gradually, Sandburg got his patient to relax, at least somewhat, the clenched muscles all over his body. Taking a breath, shaking his head and wondering if he was nuts, Blair then said, "I want you to picture five oil lanterns with different coloured bases. The flames in each lantern are turned up high, burning so brightly the light fills the glass chimney. Can you see them?" When Jim nodded with a wince of pain, Blair asked softly, "What colours are the lanterns?"

"Uh, tin, bronze, white, red, and blue," Ellison grated hoarsely, thinking the guy was crazy, but what the hell, if it helped alleviate his pain, he'd try.

"Okay, good," Sandburg murmured. "Now, when the flames are turned high like that, they represent your senses when they are wide open; but you can control the flames. I want you to turn the flames down, one at a time, not all the way, but about halfway, so you really have to concentrate as we do this. Now, let's take touch first, that's the pain…the red lantern represents both touch and pain. Imagine the flame flickering back so that it's burning steadily but not so high, reducing the pain you feel as the flame diminishes…not all the way, just halfway so that you feel more comfortable…"

Sandburg could see from Ellison's expression that the man thought he was insane, but his patient blew out a breath and concentrated. It was amazing, but Blair could actually see the lines of strain on Ellison's face gradually ease. "Good," Blair murmured. "Very good. Okay, now we're going to do smell. That's the blue lantern…"

One at a time, Sandburg walked his patient through each of his senses, as Jim imagined turning down the flames in the oil lanterns. When they'd finished, Blair asked quietly, "How's that? Do we need to lower one of the flames still more?"

Jim opened his eyes to stare up at Sandburg, for the first time really looking at him. The guy looked like he was scarcely twenty years old - and he was a doctor? "I…uh…I feel better. How did you do that?"

Blair smiled as he shook his head. "I didn't do it, you did. But, really, how's the pain?"

Swallowing, Ellison replied with reluctant honesty, "Still pretty bad."

"Okay, let's turn down the red lantern some more, so that the flame is just barely flickering - don't ever extinguish it completely, but turn it back," Blair encouraged. Ellison nodded stiffly, closed his eyes and focused on the flame in the red lantern.

"Yeah, that's better," Jim sighed in relief, amazed at how well the trick worked.

"I'm going to heat up some chicken broth one of my patients gave me," Blair told him then. "You need to eat some, to keep up your strength."

By the time Simon wandered back in to check up on how the stranger was doing, Jim had managed a half bowl of broth and then had drifted off to sleep, and Blair was catching up on his treatment records in the office.

"How's he doing? Did he ever wake up?" Banks asked as he jerked his head toward the backroom.

Sandburg leaned back in his chair as he waved Simon to another, at the end of the roll-top desk. "He woke up just after you left earlier, in a lot of pain. But, it's eased a bit and I got him to eat some soup before he slipped back to sleep."

"Who is he and what was he doing in town today?" Simon asked, curiousity shining in his eyes.

"His name's Jim Ellison and he was helping to stop a bank robbery," Sandburg replied with a straight face but his eyes twinkled as he teased the older man.

Simon snorted. "Oh, you're really helpful, you are," he chuckled in return. "Seriously, who _is_ this guy?"

Blair shrugged. "I really don't know, to tell you the truth. He was in too much pain for me to play twenty questions with him earlier."

"Yeah, I can see your point," Banks sighed.

For the first time that day, Sandburg had a chance to ask a question that he'd been wondering about. "Uh, Simon, maybe you could tell me who you are and what you were doing in town today. I'm mean, neither one of you paid any attention to the quarantine flag. And without you, we could've been in real trouble."

Banks laughed, not having thought about the kid being as curious about him as he was about that fellow, Ellison. "My partner, Joel Taggart, and I have a ranch about a half hour from town. When we heard about the sickness here, I came on in to see if I could help," he replied, then gave Sandburg a teasing look as he continued, "I didn't know a doctor had also wandered into town, right past them yellow bandanas."

Blair shrugged. "Well, I was passing through on the stage a few days ago, and the driver told me the doctor here had died last winter," he replied evenly.

"That was real good of you, Doc," Simon acknowledged quietly. "Some might have gone right past, nobody the wiser."

"Not a doctor," Blair replied quietly. "We take an oath - any would have stopped to help."

Simon wasn't as sure about that, but he let it go. "Well, maybe you're right. So, where're you from?"

"Back east," Sandburg replied easily, and then changed the subject. "So, have you got a place to sleep tonight? I've got a spare room upstairs if you're interested."

"Well, if it's no trouble," Simon accepted, surprised and pleased by the unexpected hospitality.

"No trouble at all," Blair said as he stood. "The privy's out back, along with the well, and it's the room at the back of the house. I made up the bed earlier in case it was needed. You know, the ladies around here have been really great. They came in and cleaned up the place as soon as they knew I'd be staying here. Washed the linens - and they're always giving me eggs, bacon, casseroles and stews, or soup, as well as fresh bread, apples and baked goods. So, there's plenty in the kitchen, if you get hungry. I'm just going to check on Ellison again, and I'll likely nap down here in case he needs anything during the night."

As Simon stood with a grin of amusement, he reflected that with those big blue eyes and bright smile, it was no wonder the ladies had all been so helpful. Not to mention how grateful they were that this new doctor was saving the lives of their sick kids. "All right, then, thank you. I'll see you in the morning."

But as Simon clumped up the wooden steps, he was thinking that 'back east' covered a lot of territory - and puzzling over how quickly and smoothly the kid had changed the subject when the conversation had focused on him.

* * *

When Jim next woke, it was dark but for the soft flicker of a kerosene lantern on a small table across the room. He could hear someone breathing softly on the cot by the lamp, and the muffled sound of an odd, rhythmic thumping. Trying to get his bearings, Jim shifted in the bed as he craned his head to look around, and then suddenly froze as pain seared through his shoulder, but he couldn't quite bite back a low moan. Instantly, Sandburg rose from one of the three other beds in the small surgery and moved to his side.

"Hey, how're you doing?" Blair asked softly as he laid his palm over Ellison's forehead, checking for fever.

"Could be better," Jim sighed wearily.

"Your shoulder's acting up," Sandburg surmised. "How high is the flame in the red lantern? How hot is it burning?"

"What? Oh, right," Ellison muttered and then closed his eyes as he focused on the vision. "Damn thing is flaring up out of control," he grated, sounding disgusted.

"Okay, easy to fix," Blair encouraged, his hand coming to rest on Ellison's arm to reassure him. His voice low and melodious, he directed, "Picture adjusting the flow of oil, turning the flame back until it's just flickering…"

Jim sighed with relief and then opened his eyes, grateful when Sandburg helped him drink some water. As he settled back against the pillow, he asked, "What'd you say your name was, Chief?"

"Sandburg. Blair Sandburg," the ridiculously young doctor replied as he sat down by the bed, then cocked a curious brow. "Chief?" he echoed.

"Yeah, well, you're the guy in charge around here, right?" Jim replied ironically, but then more seriously, "Thanks for fixing me up, Doc."

"It's what I do," Blair replied with a grin. "So, you want to go back to sleep or do you feel up to a little conversation?"

"About what?" Ellison challenged warily.

"How you happened to be in the neighbourhood to save Clive's life," Blair replied, his voice soft but grateful. "Sneaking into that bank was a brave thing to do. I'm sorry you ended up getting shot."

"I was just riding by when I heard the screaming and the shots," Jim replied offhandedly, as if wasn't a big deal. "Anyone else get hurt?

"The Sheriff, Jeb Stone," Blair told him with a look of concern in his eyes, then added, his expression suggesting that he regretted the rest of the news, "and the robbers were all killed."

Jim's eyes scanned the empty beds. "Where's Stone? Is he dead, too?" he asked, frowning.

"No, his wife's caring for him," Blair explained. "He'll live, but…"

"But?"

Sandburg sighed as he poured himself some water. "The bones in his arm were badly smashed by the bullet. I think we can save his hand, but…" Taking a sip, he shrugged sadly. "I shouldn't really be discussing his condition with you. So - are you from around here?"

Jim frowned as he countered, "Wouldn't you know if I was?"

"Nope, just got into town three days ago, myself," Blair replied good-naturedly. "Where're you from?"

"No place in particular," Ellison replied, looking away.

"Were you headed anywhere in particular?" Sandburg asked lightly, his tone teasing but curious.

"You always ask these many questions?" Jim growled, no more interested in talking about his lack of any plans whatsoever than he was in revealing he'd just resigned his commission.

"Sorry, no offense, Mr. Ellison," Sandburg replied as he held up his hands in self-defence. "You hungry? I got lots more of that broth and there's bread if you want to try something more solid."

"Nah, I'm fine," Jim sighed, sorry to have snapped the kid's head off. "Look, maybe I should just try to sleep some more."

"Whatever you need, man," Blair replied as he adjusted the cotton blanket over his patient and turned to lie down on the bed by the kerosene lamp.

Jim sighed and stared into the muted shadows for a while, wondering what was making the soft but distinct thumping sound he could still hear. It was monotonous, but oddly soothing, and it relaxed him back into sleep.

* * *

Simon woke early, rising with the sun. Making his way quietly downstairs, and poking his head into the infirmary to check on Ellison before he headed out to the back, he noted the man was awake. Before he could say anything, Ellison brought a finger to his lips and then pointed across the room. Leaning forward, Simon looked over and spotted Sandburg asleep on one of the other beds. The town doctor was curled on his side, one hand tucked under his chin, his wild curly hair spread over the pillow like a halo, with the crumpled blanket falling half off him. If it weren't for the dark stubble, he'd look about five years old.

Simon couldn't help but smile and shake his head. With a tread that was amazingly light for so big a man, he went to pull the blanket up around the doctor and then slipped back to Ellison's side. "You need anything?" he whispered.

"Could use a hand to get out to the privy," Ellison admitted, still feeling a little light-headed from blood loss.

Simon helped him maneuver outside to do his business and then back into the house, where Ellison suggested they go sit in the kitchen. Banks got some coffee perking, then went back outside to clean up, bringing a basin of water back for Ellison.

"I'm Simon Banks, by the way," he said as he poured two mugs of strong coffee, setting one down in front of Ellison at the table. Continuing to make himself at home, he puttered around the kitchen, finding the utensils and plates in a cupboard, slicing up bread, and stoking up the stove to heat up the frying pan. "You hungry, Ellison?" he asked.

Jim's eyes flickered at the use of his name, but he figured the kid must've told folks his name. "Yeah, I could eat. You work for the Doc?"

"No, my partner and I have a ranch southwest of here," Banks replied easily as he sorted out eggs and bacon. "I came into town yesterday just as the bank was bein' robbed."

Jim nodded as he sipped at the hot coffee. He'd known somebody besides the Sheriff and the outlaws had been doing some shooting.

"What brings you to Bitterwood Creek?" Banks asked then, still very curious about the stranger.

"Just passing through," Jim replied. "I heard some screams, and then the first shots - we must've come in from opposite sides of town."

"Uh-huh," Banks grunted, as he pulled the cooked bacon from the pan, and then cracked half a dozen eggs into the sizzling grease. "You a gunfighter?"

"No, I'm not," Jim answered steadily, but offered nothing more.

Simon watched the eggs as he continued mildly, "I was just curious. When I helped the doc yesterday, I noticed you didn't seem to be a man who works with your hands, or a farmer. And you're handy with your guns, from what Clive had to say. Pretty fancy shootin', gettin' that guy between the eyes when he was holdin' Clive in front of him." Pausing a moment to see if Ellison would offer anything more, Simon flipped the eggs and set the bread on the stove to brown. Finally turning to look at the silent man, Banks said, "Look, if you want to be a mystery man, fine. Everybody has secrets. But, Mr. Ellison, I'd like to thank you for what you did yesterday. Not many men would ride into a quarantined town to help a screamin' woman when guns are bein' fired. We were lucky you were passin' by."

Feeling unaccountably churlish, Jim turned his face away and swallowed. No one here had done anything but try to help him or be pleasant to him - it wasn't their fault that he was still so angry about what happened at Poplar Flats that he could scarcely think. Grimacing with regret, he shook his head as he looked back up at Simon. "I'm sorry," he sighed. "I, uh, was a Captain in the US Cavalry until I resigned a few days ago. Truth is, I left angry and I guess I still am."

Banks nodded as he turned away to dish up the eggs, toast and bacon, setting the plates on the table. _Well,_ he thought, thinking about the War that had only been over for about a year, _that pretty much tells me he was fightin' for the North._ Sitting down across from Ellison, he asked quietly, "Were you headin' anywhere in particular?"

"No, just riding…wherever," Jim replied as he began to eat. "Why?"

Simon shrugged, then offered tentatively, "That kid, uh, the doctor, Blair? He's pretty good at what he does; actually, he's damned good, better'n I've ever seen. He saved Jed Stone's hand yesterday, piecin' little bits of bone t'gether like it was some kind of puzzle that made sense to him. But, well, I don't think even Blair expects that Jed's ever goin' to be able to draw a gun again with that hand. I can help out as temporary sheriff, for a while, I suppose - but I've got to get back to my ranch eventually. Other folks in this town and the country hereabouts are shopkeepers and farmers, clerks, cowhands. They don't know nothin' 'bout the law, or…well, nobody else rushed to help Jed out yesterday, now did they?"

"You're asking me if I want to be Sheriff?" Jim asked, disconcerted.

"If you don't have anywhere else to be, why not stay here?" Simon replied evenly as he sipped his coffee, watching the younger man over the rim of his cup. "They're good people, it's a nice part of the country - job pays pretty well, Mr. Ellison."

"Call me, Jim," Ellison replied absently, frowning down at his plate. Finally, lifting his eyes, he said, "I'll think about it. Thanks."

"Hmm, I smell coffee," Blair's voice came from the other room, and he appeared shortly after. "Morning," he grinned to both of them and then, pouring himself a cup, he said to Jim, "You look like you're feeling a little better."

Ellison looked down at his left shoulder and arm, which was bound tightly across his chest to keep the shoulder immobile, and nodded. "Not one hundred percent, yet, but yeah, better'n last night."

"I'll check the dressing after breakfast," Sandburg told him as he chose an apple from the basket on the table. "Pain's not too bad?"

Jim stiffened, wondering if Sandburg would say anything about his weird senses in front of Simon. Maybe it was crazy, but they made him feel like some kind of freak, and he didn't really want anyone knowing about them. He relaxed when the kid just sat down and looked at him expectantly, waiting for his answer. "Not too bad," he replied and then turned his attention back to his eggs.

* * *

After Sandburg had changed the bandages on Jim's shoulder, pleased that he saw no signs of infection, he helped his patient pull on his jeans and gave Ellison his saddlebags to pull out a clean shirt. But Jim just waved him to go ahead and grab whatever he could find. Blair smiled to himself, glad that the man seemed to have relaxed a bit around him. He and Simon got Ellison settled outside the office in an old but comfortably made wooden chair, and then Blair set out on his rounds. Simon perched on the hitching rail, and the two big men simply soaked up the warmth of the morning sun for easy, silent minutes.

Jim stirred when he noticed Sandburg coming out of one of the houses at the far end of the street and then head directly into the one next door. "How many people are sick - and what are they sick with?" he asked, remembering the yellow rag on the post outside of town.

"Doc thinks it's diphtheria," Simon replied. "And, seems he's right. From what I heard yesterday as I was visiting around, chopping wood for some folks and drawing water for all the stuff he wants them to do, steam-tents, bathing the ones who still have fever, making buckets of willow-bark tea and chicken soup thickened with moldy bread - which is an idea I'd never heard before - anyway, most of 'em are gettin' better. There're about thirty kids sick, I guess, and a half-dozen of the older folk. Why, he even had to cut holes in the throats of more'n a half dozen victims, to help them breathe when their throats closed up."

"I've seen that done, but not often," Jim reflected. More than thirty patients with disease and two gunshot wounds - the kid was busy. "He said he only came to town a few days ago. Where's he from?"

"Back east," Simon replied, and when Jim cocked a brow, the older man shrugged. "That's all he said when I asked him."

"Huh," Ellison grunted as he wondered why an apparently bright young doctor would leave the thriving cities of the eastern United States to travel out to the western territories - and then get off a stage in the middle of nowhere, just because a town full of people were sick and needed him. Wasn't there someplace he was supposed to be where people were expecting him?

During the hour or so they spent in the sun, several of the townsfolk approached to introduce themselves and to thank both Jim and Simon for having helped stop the robbery. They were all very impressed with Clive's story of how the big stranger had snuck in as quiet as a mouse from the back, and then had faced down all five of the outlaws alone, saving Clive and driving the others out of the bank. Jim found all the attention disconcerting, and was relieved when Sandburg ambled back from his rounds, and suggested he should probably go inside to rest awhile.

Simon followed them indoors, and when they got Jim settled, Banks asked as they headed through to the office, "How's Jeb doing today?"

Sandburg sighed as he bit his lip. "Not as well as I'd like. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that there's some infection in his wound," he replied. As he turned back toward his office, he added, as if to himself, "If it gets any worse, I'll have to find some maggots to clean it out."

 _"Maggots?"_ Simon repeated, grimacing with disgust.

"Yeah, they've been used for centuries to clean out infected wounds," Blair replied. "I know it sounds disgusting, but it works. They consume the dead tissue before it putrefies and poisons the body, and leave the healthy tissue alone. Better than leaching blood out of already weak people, as if that's going to do them any good." Shaking his head at what he considered a ludicrous, if still widely used practice, he continued down the hall to his office to update his patients' records, while Simon headed out to do his own rounds of the town.

On his way past the livery stable, Banks slipped the note he'd written to bring Joel up to date into a saddlebag, and set Chance free to wander back home. Looked like he'd be staying in Bitterwood Creek, for a while, anyway. With the victims of diphtheria getting better, and no new folks going down sick, the quarantine would be lifted and the transients would begin streaming through again - and then the little town would need a Sheriff to keep the peace.

A couple of hours later, Sandburg heated up a donated beef casserole for the noon meal, figuring Ellison needed some hearty food to get his strength back.

"So, Simon tells me you're from back east," Jim mentioned casually, as they sat down to eat.

"Uh-huh," Blair agreed. "How 'bout you, where're you from?"

"Back east, originally," Jim replied, noting the redirection. "I moved around a lot with the army, and then the Cavalry."

"Oh, so you're a Cavalry officer," Blair guessed, not able to picture Ellison as anything _but_ an officer. The guy had an air of command, and was too quietly intimidating in his manner to be an enlisted man.

"Was - retired recently," Jim allowed. "Where were you headed?"

Sandburg shrugged. "Nowhere in particular. Kind of a case of 'have medical bag, will travel', I guess. A doctor can usually find work in most places. How about you? Where were you headed?"

"No place special," Ellison returned. Then they looked at one another and chuckled, each well aware of the other's bid to get information, and knowing full well that the other guy wasn't saying much in response.

Finding himself oddly at ease with the younger man, and curious about how the kid had known what to do to settle down his senses, Jim asked, "So - how'd you know how to help me last night? I mean, that lantern thing is a pretty good trick."

"I'm glad it worked - I was sorta making it up as I went along," Blair admitted, and then continued, "I read a book a long time ago, about an explorer in Paraguay, who wrote about people he called 'sentinels'. They were tribal watchmen and they all had five enhanced senses. Since then, I've found references to similar legends in other cultures. Over the years, I've met some people with one or two enhanced senses, but you're the first person with all five. It's a real gift, man."

"You think so? Try living with them," Jim grunted. "They drive me crazy."

"Have you always had them?" Blair asked, surprised that a man of Ellison's apparent age hadn't learned to live with something as natural as his own senses a long time ago.

"No, maybe that's the problem," Ellison replied. "They showed up during the War - I was separated from my men behind enemy lines at one point - took me a couple of weeks to get back to my own side without getting caught."

"Isolation," Blair reflected, his expression thoughtful. "Must have been the isolation, and the extreme danger that triggered them. I'd guess that you've always had them, but maybe just, I don't know, shut them down when you were a kid, and forgot about them. I hear it's the same thing with auras. When we're very young we can see them, but when we realize the grown-ups don't, well, we think it might be wrong or bad, so we repress the ability. It's not conscious, more defensive."

"Where do you get all this stuff?" Ellison asked, disconcerted. Auras? Repress? Was he serious?

"I read a lot," Blair grinned.

"Uh-huh," Jim grunted as he shook his head. "You going to hang around this town once all the sick folks are better?"

"Yeah, I think I will," Blair answered as he leaned back in his chair. "They're nice people, most of them, anyway - and they need a doctor."

"Most of them?" Ellison probed, catching the tightness in Sandburg's voice.

Sighing, the younger man pushed his hair behind his ears as he said, "Well, there're some people who can bring themselves to accept help when they need it, without necessarily accepting the man giving it. Some take time to accept people they see as different from them, and some never do."

Ellison nodded, wondering about the tensions in the town. Some folks would have a lot of trouble, he expected, accepting that the richest man around was black and their new doctor was a Jew. Some folks remained fools for their entire lives, and worse, taught their children to grow up to be fools, as well. Breaking the silence that had fallen between them, he asked, "How's Jeb Stone doing? I heard you mention to Simon that his arm's infected. Is he going to lose his hand?"

"No, I hope not," Blair sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"But…" Jim prompted, seeing the darkness of empathy flood the kid's eyes.

"But, I'm not sure he'll be able to use it as well as he once could," Blair murmured. "There was so much damage to the bones and tendons…"

"From what Simon told me, he's lucky he had you working on him, or the hand and part of his arm would already be gone," Jim offered, feeling a need to console the kid. He just looked so damned sad, and almost guilty, as if there was something more he should have been able to do. "How'd you get to be such a good doctor when you're what, only twenty-two, -three?"

Blair smiled. "I'm older than I look - and I graduated from medical school when I was eighteen."

"What? You some kind of genius or something?" Jim exclaimed.

"Or something," Blair laughed as he stood to clear the table. Changing the subject, he noted, "It's good of you to be concerned about Jeb. You don't even know him."

"You don't know him all that well, either," Ellison pointed out. "But, well, Simon guessed that maybe he might not be able to handle a gun again. Suggested I might want to consider taking on the sheriff's job."

Blair had just finished filling the basin with hot water from the kettle simmering on the stove, to wash the dishes. He turned in astonishment. "Really?" he exclaimed, and then added thoughtfully, as he sadly considered Jeb's prognosis, "That's not a bad idea, actually. I think we're going to need one."

Jim looked unconvinced. "I don't know - this isn't that big a place. How much crime could happen here?"

Blair looked meaningfully at Jim's shoulder, and the older man caught the point and wryly quirked a brow in acknowledgment. As he turned back to the washing up, Sandburg said, "I've heard from the banker's wife that, though Bitterwood Creek isn't all that big, quite a few people wander through here on their way to Wichita or back East. And, apparently, Simon and his partner, Joel Taggart, run something of a cattle empire. Bought it after they struck it rich in a gold mine or something, fifteen or more years ago. There's a fair amount of cash in that bank." He looked back over his shoulder with a grin. "You'd be surprised how much people tell you when you're their doctor."

"Hmm," Jim reflected. "Is there a boarding house in town? If I did stay, at least until someone could be hired from another town, I'd need a place to bunk."

"You can stay here, if you want," Sandburg offered with a shrug. "I've got lots of room, and it's a short, leisurely stroll to the Sheriff's Office next door."

"Thanks," Ellison replied with a small smile, surprised by the offer. "I'll think about it."

But his eyes remained cold and wary, distant as they dropped away from Sandburg's clear, wide-eyed gaze. Intellectually, Ellison knew there was nothing to suspect about this man. The doctor had no ulterior motives, nothing to gain by only pretending to generosity or even kindness. Sandburg had cared for his wound, and worked wonders in helping to understand his senses. Had, in fact, exhibited the warmth of friendship in his manner and his evident hope that Jim would accept the job as sheriff. But, what did he know about Sandburg? That he was another drifter who wasn't forthcoming about his past. Was the kid hiding something \- a crime? Was he running away from something? Hell, he was talented, sure, a great doctor by all reports, but who knew if he was even legally licensed to practice medicine? The story of finishing his training when he was only eighteen wasn't very credible, when Jim really thought about it.

Part of him wanted to accept the simplicity of what Sandburg seemed to be offering. Wanted to believe the help and the offer to share the house was without guile. But Jim had walled himself off, vowing never to trust again, never to believe in anything or anyone else - he couldn't, wouldn't, risk being made a fool again.

Belatedly, he realized that Blair had been studying him silently, a thoughtful, even sad look in his usually sparkling eyes. Quietly, as he dipped his head and then turned back to the dishwashing, he said, "Whatever you want, Jim. It's up to you. Whatever makes you comfortable."

* * *

Given how little was really known about when diphtheria was contagious, before or during its appearance, Sandburg insisted they wait a full week after the last case of diphtheria had appeared and was well under control, and most of the other victims fully recovered, before he agreed to allow the yellow flags of quarantine to be removed from the posts outside town. Some grumbled at his caution. Silas McCready, who ran the saloon, was amongst the loudest; he counted on the stage, and the ramblers who wandered through - not to mention the cowboys from the ranches in the area - for his business. But others in the town backed the young doctor, so Sandburg's decision prevailed.

Leading Chance on a halter, Joel rode into a town a couple of days after getting Simon's note, to bring him a few more shirts, some socks, and another pair of jeans, given he'd be staying in town for a few weeks; at least, until the matter of a more permanent Sheriff could be sorted out. For Simon's instincts proved true: Jeb Stone wouldn't be able to continue with the job. Before the young couple could even begin to worry about what that meant for their economic survival, Simon and Joel went to visit them, offering Jeb a job on the ranch and his wife the work of being their housekeeper and cook, if she was willing to consider the position. The offers were delicately made, understanding that some might think it odd for a white woman to be waiting on two black men, and not every white man would consider working for men who were black. But Suzannah had always liked the strong, kind, older men, and Jeb had learned to respect both of them a long while back - both young people saw the kindness, as well as the concern for them, behind the offers, and were only too grateful to accept.

As Jim's strength returned, he began to amble around the town, getting a feel for the place. Quiet himself for the most part, as he wasn't given to a lot of talk, he spent his time listening to the stories people told about themselves and Bitterwood Creek. Before long, he concluded that Simon was probably right about the fact that there were no other candidates for the sheriff's job in town. Oh, there were men who might have done the job, if they'd been interested. Silas McCready, for example, was a big man who wore a gun, if tucked away in a shoulder holster, but he was more interested in making money - as was the banker, Sam Sloane, for all his blather about wanting to see Bitterwood Creek grow, and being concerned about the wellbeing of his neighbours. The blacksmith was another possibility. Henri Brown was a big, strapping man a few years younger than Jim, and he didn't look like he took any guff. But he was also a jovial man, smarter than he let on, wary of assuming too much. He'd come into town with his wife and two young children after the War Between the States had ended, looking for a new start after having been freed from his slavery as a Cajun plantation owner's 'smith. Freedom was still a new way of being for him, and he wasn't ready to take on responsibility for the safety of white people whom he wasn't entirely comfortable with yet. Angus McDonald, a thin, taciturn man, ran the General Store and he, too, seemed preoccupied with the bottom lines in his ledgers. Marcus Candling was the barber and well suited to his profession. He loved to gossip and speculate about anything under the sun, but he was no fighter - slightly paunchy with the flushed complexion of one who liked his drink, he wouldn't know what to do with a weapon if his life depended upon it. Moe Gurning, the bartender and bouncer at the saloon, was a beefy man who ran more to muscle than fat - he didn't talk much either, but Jim wondered if it was meanness he saw glinting in the other man's eyes when he thought no one was watching, or just a tendency toward hard and rigid judgments. The man who ran the newspaper, Dan Raymond, and Johnny Winston who worked in the Telegraph Office as well as keeping the local stage schedule, were good men - decent, hardworking men - but more interested in books than in potentially violent undertakings.

Most of the women in town seemed to be wives, daughters or dependent sisters, or old grandmothers, with the notable exception of a few independent creatures. Maisie Dunning was such a one, a widow who swore she'd never marry again, but who was probably just bluffing about that. She was a great cook and outspoken, but kind-hearted and seemed lonely. Jim found her solicitous attention to him a little suffocating, quickly learning to smile pleasantly, tip his hat and amble off before she hauled him into the bakery for a coffee and a 'bit of sweet' to fatten him up. He just had a feeling that if he wasn't careful, she'd have him hogtied and at the church in front of the preacher before he'd quite known what had happened. It didn't help that Sandburg, apparently, thought Maisie's infatuation quite funny. Nellie Bascome, the schoolmarm, was bright and insightful but, though she was ready to help anyone who needed it, she was a little retiring by nature, and more comfortable with the children.

The surprise was Megan Connor, who owned and ran the hotel. An unusually tall woman with a flaming mane of red hair - and a temper to match - she took no nonsense from anyone. Smart, efficient, more than a little caustic in her observations and humour, she frankly seemed to terrify most of the men in town. Still, she was also exotic, having come all the way from Australia on the other side of the world; and very beautiful, so she was fascinating to the others in town, and the subject of a good deal of gossip.

And, when the quarantine was lifted, Jim understood why Simon was so certain the town needed a fulltime sheriff. Bitterwood Creek transformed overnight from a veritable ghost town to a lively, bustling center of business and entertainment for the area, as well as a way-station, of sorts, for people passing through, either on the east or westbound stages that rumbled through town daily, or for riders drifting into town on the way to somewhere else. Music spilled out onto the street from the saloon, along with the tinkle of glasses and the chink of coins on the bar or the poker tables - and the high-pitched laughter of women who were rarely seen or heard in the light of day. Whiskey flowed in an endless river, while barrels of home-brewed beer emptied as if by magic. Cowhands rode in with their wages in their jeans, looking for entertainment, either in the games of chance, or with the ladies who lived above the saloon. Gamblers came and went like the drifting tumbleweed, fleecing the locals with glib words and fancy dealing, and not everyone was a good loser. Brawls were a common occurrence, and the occasional gunplay cracked through the night. As the accommodation in the jail came into more regular use, Jim learned that a Circuit Judge came through every fortnight, though most of the offences, the drunks and the disorderly, were simply fined in the cold light of dawn and sent on their way.

It took three weeks before Sandburg would even begin to consider giving Ellison a clean bill of health, though his wounds had healed in two. For the third week, and into the fourth, Blair supervised a specialized exercise program he'd developed to build strength and resilience back into Ellison's shoulder. And, during that time, Sandburg also devised a plethora of tests and exercises for Ellison's senses, so that if he did choose to move on when he was fully healed, he'd have a better understanding of his own unique capabilities - as well as how to control them better.

At first, Jim had been reluctant to work with Blair on his senses, feeling a little like a guinea pig for a bright doctor whose other patients had all recovered. But the third time in two days that Sandburg caught him staring off into space, at the stars, or the flame in a kerosene lantern, or once just when he was stirring a pot of soup on the stove, Ellison had to reluctantly agree that he needed help - and needed it badly. He never told Sandburg, but Simon had caught him once, too, lost somewhere in a haze after he'd tried too hard to listen into the hushed conversation of a few disreputable drifters who were eying the bank suspiciously. Simon had managed to bring him around, mostly by shaking him 'til he snapped out of it, but Blair never seemed to need to resort to such physical interventions. It was as if the touch of his hand and the sound of his voice were homing signals that drew Jim back to awareness quickly and without a lot of fuss.

So, it became their habit that in the evenings to work on Jim's senses, if Sandburg wasn't out on a call or mixing up medicines to replenish his supplies. Blair had him refine his sense of touch by handling and identifying various things with his eyes closed. Kernels of various grains, cooking oil and lamp oil, threads of cotton or catgut, buttons of bone or wood. Or Sandburg would talk him through his sense of hearing, gradually having Jim open up his capacity to listen in on conversations in the saloon down the block or the hotel beyond that. Then he'd tell Ellison to try to block out the cacophony of that incessant chatter, and concentrate instead on the creek behind the house, the rustle of leaves, the stomping of the horses in the stable or the distant lowing of cattle on the open range. Sometimes, it was his sense of smell that Blair wanted to hone, again having him close his eyes to sniff at various vials, jars and bottles of medicines, herbs, fruits or vegetables. When it was sight Sandburg wanted to explore, he'd pull out the heavy medical tomes from the bookshelves in the office, or one of the journals that came every week or so for him in the mail brought by the stage, and he'd have Jim read the things - from increasing distances as Blair moved farther away across the room or out into the hall, in varying light, as Sandburg turned down one wick after another, until Jim realized he was reading the words up to twenty feet away, in virtual darkness - and often, upside down as Sandburg would tease him by flipping the book or journal without warning, just to see how Jim would react.

And, always, Blair maintained a low tone of never-ending encouragement, often touching him lightly to reassure him that he could do whatever was being asked. If he sank too deep and was losing his sense of place and self, Sandburg seemed to sense it, and always drew him back before he was lost. They'd work on the lanterns, so that Ellison could consciously turn senses up or down at will, one or more at a time, and Blair suggested that he never focus or 'heighten' only one sense at a time, especially if he were alone, as that would increase his risk of fogging or 'zoning', as Sandburg came to call it. Blair figured using two senses at a time would help to ground him.

Jim wasn't used to being touched as often as Blair touched him. In the military, touch was rare, most often no more than a helping hand when a guy was wounded. The rigid posture of attention, the protocols of hierarchy, even amongst men of the same rank who had their own chain of responsibilities, prohibited overt physical demonstrations of friendship or support. In part, Ellison figured, it was the underlying, often unspoken but nevertheless very real, caution and aversion to encouraging undue physical and emotional familiarity between men living in such close communal relationships. There were moral issues, if the men were lovers, as such relationships were considered aberrant, and abhorrent, abominations. Further, very close personal relationships, even if only between good friends, could present ethical dilemmas and even real danger in a military environment. If a man cared too much about the wellbeing of another, his judgment could be affected and impaired, putting the morale and safety of the entire troop put at risk. Promotions and plums assignments could be perceived as favouritism. In crisis situations, men could break ranks, trying to save the good friend or, if the friend was killed, could become lost in an emotional fog of grief or rage.

Consequently, at first, Jim stiffened when Sandburg touched him until he realized he was being foolish. The doctor wasn't trying to compromise his ethics or morals. He was a healer, who used touch to reassure and to lend support. That was all. So, Ellison relaxed and accepted what Sandburg seemed to do unconsciously, hardly even aware that he was touching when they worked on his senses - because, certainly, the doctor kept his hands to himself, otherwise. But, even the sound of Blair's voice assumed undue significance; when he spoke, particularly when coaching Jim through his senses, it was like being immersed in a crystal clear pool that was warm and limpid on the skin. Relaxing and reaffirming at the same time. Soothing, but stimulating.

Ellison found himself, despite all his convictions and vows to remain separate and apart from others for the rest of his days, being undermined by the simple trust that the helpful and caring young man inspired in those around him. Still, a voice in the back of his mind warned Jim that he found the touch and sound, the very presence, of the younger man too comfortable. Worse, after a time, he came to miss it when Blair was out doing rounds, tending to other duties, as if in its absence, warmth had been taken from the world. It was disconcerting.

So, instinctively, Jim tried to maintain a certain coolness, a distance, a wall of space and emotion, between himself and the man who was doing so much to help him understand, and accept, who and what he was.

But Sandburg seemed to sense when those walls of defensiveness and irritation began to get in the way when Jim was tired, or irritated with the tests, and needed space again, some distance - when enough was enough. When Jim grew increasingly frustrated, even surly, he'd call a halt and pull out a deck of cards for a casual game, or dig out the former doctor's chess set, restoring a sense of distance while still maintaining a mood of comradely friendship. Sometimes, on the nights when Jim was especially weary, Blair would simply say he had to do some reading or catch up on his patient records and leave Ellison in blessed peace and quiet. Before long, Jim realized it was deliberate, not happenstance, and that Sandburg just seemed exceptionally well tuned to his moods and needs. But it took a while to realize that a good deal of that patient record-keeping that Sandburg was doing, were notes Blair was making on him and his senses. Jim wasn't at all happy with those notes being kept, but Sandburg just shrugged and said the notes might be helpful someday.

"I'd rather have them, and never need them, than not have them, and wish I did," Blair said. "They're confidential notes, Jim - locked in my cabinet and nobody has the key but me. Don't worry, I wouldn't keep these records if I ever thought they'd be a danger to you."

Ellison had left it at that, but he never felt good about it. Still, as time went on, and Sandburg referred back to the notes once in a while to check on something, or to clarify some confusion, he reluctantly began to see that maybe they were useful.

Gradually, despite his best intentions, Jim found his defences slipping. One night, after Blair had been teasing him, and clowning around outrageously as he wittily recounted his past experiences in working in some hospital somewhere, the stupid rules, the maddening bureaucracy, the overly sensitive caste system of required obeisance to doctors - and some of the more idiotic foibles and practices of the doctors, themselves - Jim found himself howling with laughter, so hard that there were tears in his eyes and he could hardly get his breath. Blair glowed at his reaction, snickering himself at Ellison's sudden helpless abandon, though at the time, he didn't understand the full import of Jim's hilarity. Many of Blair's anecdotes resonated with Ellison's experiences, within the military bureaucracy, that he'd found inane and ridiculous and often very amusing. He hadn't thought he'd ever be able to laugh again about his life in uniform, but that evening healed some of the wounds in Jim's soul - he could again think of his past with something more than bitter recrimination.

Later that night, chuckling in recollection of Blair's antics as he settled down to sleep, Jim found himself trying to remember when he'd last laughed, let alone with all-out, even giddy, delight. And then, try as he might, he just couldn't resist or deny any longer the honest affection he felt for the kid. He liked Sandburg. More, he knew that somehow, the doctor had snuck in under all of his defences and had become, without any help from Ellison, the best friend Jim had ever had. Not that he'd had many good friends, or had even felt the need of them before now.

The next morning after his office hours had been completed, Sandburg called Jim inside from where he'd been chopping wood to ensure Blair had enough stacked by the stable to last him through winter, and led him back to the office.

"What's up?" Jim asked a tad warily, wondering if the good doctor had more irritating 'tests', or frustrating 'suggestions', about his senses. Grudgingly, Jim pushed away his churlish thoughts. Though Sandburg's suggestions and tests hadn't been easy to master, Ellison had to admit they had helped - a lot. And though some had been annoying or irritating, Blair always made an effort to also make most of them as entertaining as he could, and they often ended up laughing at some of the more bizarre tests he dreamed up. So, Jim settled himself in the chair at the end of the desk and waited to see what Blair wanted of him, only then realizing how serious, even somber, the kid looked.

"I was just wondering," Blair replied as he gazed at Jim steadily, "if you plan to use your gun anytime soon?"

"Well, I don't plan to rob the bank, if that's what you're worried about," Jim jibed back, thinking it an odd question, wondering what was bothering the younger man.

Sandburg shook his head, not rising to the banter. "No, of course not, but I want to know if you can draw your weapon as easily, and as swiftly, as you were used to doing before your injury. I suspect that you came to count on the skill you had, and I'd like to be certain that you have either adjusted to the fact you're maybe a bit slower now, or that you're practicing to get your skill back. 'Cause, otherwise, well, you could get yourself killed," he concluded soberly, but then grinned like an imp as he added, "and that would waste all the hard work I've expended on you."

Ellison looked away, not fooled by the teasing glint in the kid's eyes; touched by the unexpected concern. "I've been practicing," he admitted. "You're right, I'm a little slower, but not much. And my right draw is as good as it ever was."

"All right, then," Blair sighed mournfully as he sagged despondently against the back of his chair, "you're free to go."

When Jim looked at him in surprise at his sorrowful manner, the kid added with painful sincerity, "But, uh, I think Simon was right to offer you the job of sheriff here, and I hope you'll stay."

"You just want to run more tests on me," Ellison accused, but a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth in response to the unexpected glow of warmth he felt in his chest to realize how much the younger man hoped he wouldn't just pack up and leave. It felt good to know that maybe, the kid had begun to see him as a good friend, too, and would honestly miss him if Jim decided it was time to move on.

"Yeah, you're right," Sandburg agreed readily. "Your senses are truly amazing, an extraordinary gift, but I think there's a lot more you could be doing with them, and they still sneak up on you every once in a while. I, uh, well, I'd feel better if you were in the neighbourhood of someone who knows something about what's going on with you."

"Sandburg, if I take the job, I'll be on my own," Ellison replied, figuring whether he stayed or left, he'd be alone with his senses when he went up against what could be a dangerous world. "It's not like you'll be tagging along with me."

"Well, I could," Blair offered, though his eyes fell away, expecting to be refused. "I mean, sometimes, I have to be out with a patient, but most evenings I'm just hanging around. I could, ah, walk the patrols with you, back you up, sort of, if trouble's brewing in the saloon."

"Chief, you don't wear a gun," Ellison objected, frankly astonished by the unlooked for, and certainly unexpected, offer. "Sure, most times, there's nothing to worry about. But there are times when…"

"Well, I figure I'll just learn to duck," Sandburg cut in, his eyes lifting again to Ellison's gaze. "I can _help_ you, Jim. I can help you focus your sight or your hearing and catch you before you zone. Frankly, I'm a little worried about you trying to do it all on your own. Right now, anyway. Maybe, in time, you'd have good enough control, but admit it - you don't right now."

Ellison's gaze dropped as he thought about his options. He could ride away, just disappear - but to where, to do what? This town needed someone like him to keep the law, and wasn't that he wanted to do with his life, to be of some use protecting those who couldn't protect themselves? And, though he hated to admit it, Blair was right. He didn't have the mastery he needed to count on his own ability to manage and control his senses himself. His lips tightened as he considered the offer Sandburg had made, weighing the dangers to the younger man, and how he could ensure his safety - until, finally, he looked back up at Sandburg, who was watching him with a hopeful expression in his eyes.

"That offer of a room still good?" Jim asked, trying for a nonchalant manner, as if it were no big deal but hoping Sandburg hadn't changed his mind.

Sandburg grinned jubilantly, and then nodded. "It goes with the job of sheriff - so, I guess it's all yours, man." Then he stood and stuck out his hand as he said happily, "Welcome to Bitterwood Creek, Sheriff Ellison."

* * *

Simon was delighted, and relieved, when Jim agreed to become the Sheriff of Bitterwood Creek. Having sounded out the townspeople, he knew there was a solid majority who hoped Ellison would stay on - and, besides, it was long past time for him to get back to his ranch.

So, later that day in the Sheriff's Office next door, a committee of citizens swore Jim in, and he pinned the badge to his shirt. As soon as the official ceremony was concluded, he thanked people for their confidence, told them he'd do his best by them, and then urged them to get about their business. As he said it with a smile, they chuckled and drifted out of the office. Simon had already packed up his gear, and Chance was hitched to the post outside.

"I'm real glad you're stayin', Jim," he said as he held out his hand to shake Ellison's. "If you ever need backup, you let me know."

"I will, Simon, thanks," Ellison replied with a sober nod. "And - well, thanks for setting this up for me."

"It's in my own best interest, Sheriff," Simon replied with a devilish grin as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the bank across the street. "My life savings are over yonder, and I like to know they're secure." Turning to Blair, to shake the young man's hand, Banks leaned down as he said, "You make sure he stays out of trouble, you hear?" When Sandburg laughed, Simon added, "And thanks for putting me up. This town got lucky the day you walked in, just 'cause you knew folks needed you." Looking up to include Jim, he added, "Got lucky with both of you. When you have the time, you're both welcome out at the ranch. Take care, now." With that, he turned and they ambled out with him as he left. Once he was mounted, he raised his fingers to the brim of his Stetson in an informal salute, and then guided Chance out of town.

"Well, I guess I should be getting about my business," Blair said with a grin, deliberately echoing Ellison's words to the other townsmen.

"Ah, just one thing before you go," Jim countered as he waved Sandburg back inside. Walking around the desk, he rifled in a drawer for something and then moved back to stand before Blair. "Raise your right hand," he instructed.

"What?" Blair asked, frowning in confusion.

"Raise your right hand," Jim repeated, and when he did, Sheriff James Ellison swore in his new deputy, and then handed him a badge.

Blair was gaping at it as Ellison said, "I don't want you wearing that in case it makes you a target, but I want you to have it. If you're going to back me up, it's going to be official. From now on, you're my part-time deputy as well as full-time doctor to this town. You sure you can handle both?"

"Oh, yeah," Blair replied soberly. "I won't let you down. Thanks, Jim, for trusting me."

Jim nodded, and believed the younger man. Despite all his best intentions, all his convictions that he'd never trust again, never care enough for anyone or let himself be vulnerable to the actions of another soul - he trusted Sandburg. And he was deeply appreciative of how soberly Blair responded to that trust. Utter and absolute sincerity glowed from his eyes as he vowed to be worthy of Jim's trust in him, and his voice was unsteady with gratitude for the gift of it.

* * *

Until Simon had moved his gear out, Jim had continued to bunk in the infirmary downstairs. But he moved upstairs immediately thereafter, and made himself at home. Though he settled in and, within the walls of his new home or with Sandburg in the streets, felt a calm he'd rarely felt anywhere, he still held a deep and abiding anger coiled in his gut. When he was tired, or tense, he was prone to snap at Sandburg, mostly because the kid was 'safe' and he didn't have to guard himself around Blair, like he did with everyone else. Though he felt guilty at first, Sandburg seemed to understand and not take it personally; he'd just snap back if it was warranted, or shrug it off, giving Jim an even greater sense of peace and security around the younger man. Sandburg took him as he was; there was no need of any pretense of any kind in his company.

But one late night after the town had finally settled down, instead of heading up to bed, Sandburg invited him into the kitchen for a mug of tea. Still wound up from sorting out a brawl that had almost gotten ugly, Jim accepted. Once the mugs were filled with one of Sandburg's herbal brews, they sat kitty-corner across the table from one another, the only light from the soft glow of the candles Blair had lit from the coals of the stove. As soon as they were settled, Sandburg asked quietly, "What makes you so angry all the time, Jim? It's not good for you, you know. You grind your teeth at night, and you're going to get an ulcer. I don't want to pry, but I wonder if, maybe, it would help to talk about it."

Ellison stiffened and looked away, not sure he wanted to talk about the fury that burned in his gut almost all the time. Swallowing, he toyed with his mug, turning it in small, tight, circles on the wood-plank table. Taking a breath, he cut a look up at the man who had somehow become, in such a few short weeks, someone who felt closer than a brother. A man he knew virtually nothing about, except that he could trust him and that Blair accepted him for all his prickly ways. Now, as he gazed into his best friend's eyes, he saw only honest concern for him. "Tell you what, Doc, I'll make you a deal. I tell you my secrets, if you'll tell me yours."

Blair's gaze dropped then, and he sat back against his chair, thinking about it. Finally, he shrugged as he looked up and said quietly, "Okay, not that my secrets are any big deal. But, I asked first, so you go first."

Nodding, his mouth and throat suddenly feeling parched, Ellison took a sip of the hot tea, scarcely noting the light taste of refreshing and calming mint. "I joined the Army when I was thirteen," he began, looking at the mug in his hand. "I was big for my age, so I lied, and told them I was sixteen. Anyway, it became my…home, I guess. It wasn't perfect, but I believed in what we stood for - or what I thought we stood for. Protection of the nation. Courage, honour, loyalty. Safeguard the people and fight for what's right."

He flicked a look at Sandburg who just nodded as he sipped his own tea. "Anyway," Ellison continued, "like a lot of other guys, I fought in the War and saw a lot of things that I hope I never see again." His eyes got a faraway, haunted, look, and then he shook off the memories as he went on, "But as bad as that was - the worst thing I thought I'd ever experience - it wasn't. I resigned my commission just a couple of days before I rode in here." Bowing his head, his voice tight with pain and pity and the ever-present fury, he ground out, "I was ordered to lead my men in a surprise raid against Running Deer's encampment at Poplar Flats. I knew the Chief was abiding by the terms of the treaty; that massacring them as some kind of example was wrong for so very many reasons. So - I refused a direct order for the first time in my life. And I quit. My superior officer had me locked in the stockade until after the raid was well on its way the next morning, and then I was given my leave to go. I…I rode out there, thinking maybe some would be alive, maybe there was still something…but the camp was a smoldering ruin and they…they were all dead…one hundred and ninety-four people, a hundred and fourteen of them just **_kids_** …"

Jim's voice broke, and he shook his head, striving for control.

A look of appalled astonishment, followed immediately by aching compassion, glittered in Sandburg's eyes, but he quickly blinked away the stinging moisture. This was Jim's story to tell, his anguish to be assuaged, if there was any way of comforting such terrible memories. He'd read in the local paper about the horrific massacre, though not everyone saw it that way, and the details that had been given had been far from this reality of an unprovoked extermination of an entire community. He'd had no idea that Jim had even been there, let alone witnessed such a devastating atrocity. No wonder the man always seemed so angry, so cynical and distant. Jim had arrived in Bitterwood Creek only a couple of days after the Poplar Flats attack and, now, Sandburg really understood why that angry, embittered stranger had ridden into a quarantined town just because he'd heard a woman screaming in fear. Silently, he waited for Ellison to continue.

Swallowing convulsively, Jim grated, "I **_believed_** in what I thought our military stood for - I believed in the honour of the institution. But I was wrong. And, I guess, I'm ashamed to have not seen it coming. To have not been able to do something…"

Licking his lips, taking another sip of tea, he looked up at Sandburg, who was gazing at him with sorrowful understanding. "It was _wrong_ because those people, the women and the children especially, didn't deserve to die. It was wrong because we'd given our word in the treaty, and then we dishonoured it in the most obscene and treacherous way possible. It was wrong because it hasn't been some kind of twisted lesson for the Indians to come into line, or else - all it did was prove to them that we can't be trusted to keep **_our_** word. So, from what I've gathered from the newspaper reports and the telegraph bulletins, hostilities are worse than they ever were and **_more_** people are dying. And…and I didn't stop it."

When Jim's voice died away, Blair blew out a long breath. Reaching across the corner of the table, he gripped Ellison's arm as he said, "YOU didn't break your word. YOU acted with honour. You can't wear this, or blame yourself for an atrocity that you didn't have the power to prevent. Shit happens, Jim; it happens all the time, man. You can only be responsible for how you act in terrible situations - like riding into a strange town to risk your life to save folks you didn't even know. Your anger is understandable; you were betrayed by something fundamental that you believed in. But your anger can't bring those people back, can't turn back time. It can only shred your own soul, for a crime you didn't commit. You're **_not_** God, Jim. Just a brave man who does his best."

Ellison shook his head, grateful for the words, but the disgust and the fury choked him, too strong to let it go - he should have been able to do **_something!_** "If I'd just turned around and walked out, maybe I could have warned Running Deer…I don't know. I didn't expect Rutherford to toss me in the stockade - maybe I should have…"

"How could you have divined the future to anticipate your superior would treat you so unconscionably?" Blair cut in. "Seriously, man, to have ridden off without first resigning your commission would have been a violation of your word of honour, the very thing you were resigning over - a fundamental breach of trust. You did the only thing you could have done in the circumstances." Sandburg paused, and when Jim still didn't seem convinced, he asked quietly, "Look at it this way; if our situations were reversed, and it was my story to tell - would you see me as somehow responsible for having failed those people? What else could I have done? Or - is there something more could I do now, to try to ensure it doesn't happen again?"

Ellison sighed and shook his head, but the guilt he felt eased some. "Nothing," he replied quietly. "There was nothing you \- **_I_** could have done." But was there anything he could do now? Was there a way of stopping such hideous slaughter, a way of calming the violence and restoring some hope of peace? Finally, he added, "I guess I can't do much about what happens in other places - but I can help find some way to restore peace, here at least, if the conflict between the whites and the Indians begins to involve us. Maybe, maybe if we could make things work out differently here, it would be an example, a model or something, for other places."

"Maybe," Blair smiled slightly. "We can't ever change the past - we can only try to create a different future by being committed to something better than we have now. You're doing that already, by keeping the peace, protecting the innocent, safeguarding our community. You **_are_** making a difference for the good, Jim. You're our watchman - our Sentinel. And I **_know_** , with absolutely **_no_** doubt, we can all count on you."

Jim felt a lump in his throat, his eyes stinging as he blinked rapidly at the plainly stated, unvarnished and simple trust Blair gave to him. He could feel Sandburg's warm grip on his arm, and the strength of his compassion and confidence. Blowing out a shuddering breath, he felt something ease inside. He'd always be angry about what happened, and would never forget it, but maybe he didn't have to carry it all with him, fresh and raw, into his every waking moment. In the comfortable silence between them, the tension eased from his shoulders and he sighed. "Thanks, kid," he murmured quietly.

Sandburg patted his arm and gathered up the empty mugs, rinsing them with hot water he'd poured from the kettle into the basin when he'd made their tea. Turning to lean against the cabinet that held their food supplies and crockery, he said quietly, "It's late - how 'bout we continue this discussion another night?"

Looking up at him, Ellison replied earnestly, "I _want_ to hear your story." And, almost surprisingly, Jim meant it - he'd not cared a lot about others in his life, not for a very long time. But he cared about Sandburg, and found himself honestly wanting to know more about the younger man.

"I know, and I'll tell it to you, but just not tonight."

Looking at his younger friend, Jim could see the faint lines of weariness in his face, the shadows under his eyes, and he nodded. "Okay. I trust you to keep your word."

Ellison wondered if Sandburg understood how much that meant - how very hard Jim found it to trust anyone as he'd discovered he trusted Blair.

But when the kid's eyes glittered before he blinked quickly, and the way his voice quavered, just a little, as he said, "Thanks," Jim figured, maybe, Sandburg did know. And was warmed by how much his trust seemed to mean to the younger man.

* * *

Whether it had anything to do with the full moon or not, Jim could never figure it out, but on those days and nights, things always seemed more hectic than usual. It didn't help that it was a hot, dry spell with a wind that never seemed to quit and that aggravated people no end. Or, that it was the end of the week, when the cowboys came to town, looking for fun and all too often finding trouble. Not only was there a steady stream of fights through the long afternoons and evenings but also, once the town seemed to settle in the wee hours of the morning, Sandburg inevitably got busier. He'd just finish patching up a cut over an eye, or a busted finger, and he'd be called out to deliver a baby or to treat some kid with the croup.

So Jim bided his time, waiting until things quieted a bit, before again signaling his interest in hearing more about his friend's past. Or he intended to wait, until he heard Sandburg come in one morning just as the pale light of dawn was streaking the eastern sky, and wandered downstairs to see if the new baby in Bitterwood Creek was a boy or a girl.

Sandburg was standing by the washbasin in the kitchen, splashing the sweat from his body and cooling himself, as the air was still blisteringly hot; the darkness of the just ending night having brought little relief. He'd taken his shirt off and, as the early light of day streamed in the window, Jim couldn't believe what he was seeing. His mouth dropped open and he shook his head, scowling in sudden anger at what had been done to Sandburg, and from the look of the scars, not more than a year or so ago.

 ** _"My God,"_** he swore. **_"Who did that to you?"_**

Blair jumped in surprise at the sound of Jim's voice, but then settled quickly as he turned and reached for his shirt. But Ellison strode to his side, and turned him a little to lightly touch the still-reddened crisscrossing scars. "You've been whipped within an inch of your life!" he grated, nausea twisting in his gut as he pictured Sandburg being so viciously abused.

"It's, uh, part of my story," Blair murmured, his head falling forward and his hair hiding his face, but he didn't pull away from Jim's touch. "It's okay - I guess the scars look worse'n they are. It doesn't hurt anymore, not much anyway."

"I want to know who did this!" Jim snapped as his hand dropped and he shifted to stand in front of his friend. Ellison had never held with brutality or abuse - in his view, it was simply, profoundly, wrong. But, though the reality of abuse disgusted him, rarely had he felt such a surge of outright rage - an almost mindless desire to find the one who had done this to Sandburg and punish him in kind. He could imagine no one, most especially the gentle young man standing before him in the early light of day, ever warranting such bestial discipline. God, from the look of his back, it was a wonder he hadn't died of the trauma of such vicious torture! And the thought of Sandburg dying, dying in such pain, twisted something inside Jim, arousing an almost desperate need to safeguard and protect this special young man.

Sandburg swallowed and nodded as he lifted his head, but then quickly covered a wide yawn as he asked wearily, "Can I get some sleep, first? I'm really whacked out, Jim."

Ellison could see the deep shadows of fatigue under the eyes that lifted to meet his own. Ellison's rage died, extinguished by the very evident need Sandburg had to simply rest. He'd learn who had done this, but not at the expense of causing more grief to Blair to do so. "Okay," he said with a curt nod. "But - when you wake up, we're going to talk."

* * *

When Blair came downstairs about four hours later, glad that it was a Sunday and he didn't have any office hours, he found Jim in the kitchen, making him breakfast. "Thanks, Jim," he sighed gratefully as he took the proffered mug of coffee and sank down at the table. Minutes later, a good solid breakfast of fried eggs and potatoes, bacon, sliced tomatoes, toasted bread and a healthy chunk of cheddar was set in front of him. "Since you didn't have time to eat last night, I assumed you'd be hungry," Jim said as he poured himself some coffee.

Gratefully digging in, Blair flashed him a grin as he replied, "I can always eat, man - this is great, thanks."

Quietly, Jim sat down and waited, giving his friend a chance to finish his meal before insisting upon knowing how Blair had come to be whipped so brutally.

Finally, Sandburg stood to take his empty plate to the washbasin, and to fill both their mugs with more coffee. Sitting back down, he leaned forward to prop his elbows on the table as he held the cup in front of him, like it was something of a shield. "I'm guessing you want to hear my story, now," he said quietly.

"You'd be guessing right," Jim agreed, his eyes focused intently on his young friend.

Blair bit his lip for a moment, as if trying to decide where to start, and then set his mug down as he began, "I told you a while ago I became a doctor at eighteen. I studied at Johns Hopkins in Maryland. My Mom and I traveled a lot when I was a kid…the years I spent at the university and the hospital were the first years I ever really felt like I belonged anywhere. It felt… good. After I graduated, I set up a practice with my best friend, Lucas Wheeler, and we were getting a pretty good reputation as bright, up and coming, modern physicians. Within a year of graduation, I met the woman I wanted to marry, Eliza Mayhew, and, much to my great joy, it seemed she wanted to marry me, too."

Blair smiled a little in memory, but then his eyes darkened and the smile faded. "We got engaged just before the War broke out. I, uh, didn't support the South. Oh, I know a big part of that war was really about economic issues and the South's resentment of how the North controlled trade, but it was also about slavery - an institution I consider loathsome. So, I decided I had to move north of the Mason-Dixon Line, and I wanted Eliza to come with me." Blair's lips tightened as he looked away. "She refused. She supported the South."

"I'm sorry," Jim murmured sympathetically, though he thought the woman a fool to turn her back on the love of such a good man, and resented her deeply for betraying her trust to Sandburg, for hurting him. "The War split a lot of families apart."

Nodding, Sandburg sighed and then continued. "I told her that I loved her, and that I'd be back - and that I hoped that she'd wait for me. Anyway, I joined the Army as a doctor, and did my best. But it was _such_ a slaughter. The filthy tents where I treated the injured were like abattoirs. God, Jim, I had to amputate so many limbs that I _knew_ I could have saved if I'd only had more time - but I only had time to save as many _lives_ as I could. And the disease, God, the disease - partly the result of malnourishment and exhaustion, not to mention exposure because so few had decently warm or dry clothing, mostly I think, because of the filthy conditions - killed twice as many as bullets did. Some days, and many, maybe most, nights, I wondered if I really did anyone any good. So very many men died in such fear and agony…" his voice tightened and he paused to look into Jim's steady gaze. "I know you've seen it, too. I saw it in your eyes the other night."

Yes, he had seen the horror of it, and it haunted his nightmares still. It grieved Ellison to think that Sandburg, yet so young, had been so mired in the horror of what that war had cost in lives, whether through outright death, or through wounds that would never heal. He could imagine, only too well, how much Blair would have suffered doubts about his value in such circumstances, and the empathy he felt filled him, robbing him of words.

When Jim nodded, Blair took another sip of coffee, and then set the mug down. "About six months before the War ended, some of us got caught when the front shifted too quickly for us to evacuate," he continued, his voice low with his effort at control. "I was in the middle of surgery when the Rebs overran us. They, uh, wouldn't let me finish - just hauled me away from the table and chained me up with everyone else who was ambulatory. Then they herded us away, leaving the ones who were too badly hurt to walk, including the poor kid bleeding on that table, to die. Eventually, they loaded us into cattle cars and shipped us south to Masonville."

"Ah, Jesus, Chief," Jim cursed as he closed his eyes against the image of Sandburg being hauled away from men who would die without his help - and, knowing Blair, he figured the kid hadn't just peacefully up and left a bleeding patient on the operating table. Jim could also picture the malodorous muck in undoubtedly filthy cattle cars, and they'd have been jammed in like animals …and then to wind up in Masonville? God, the place was infamous as the foulest prison camp in the South. A hellhole in a damp, swampy area rife with disease, designed for a hundred men, but housing nearly a thousand prisoners packed together like sardines, with scarcely room to sit or walk without banging into someone else - not enough food or water, certainly none for bathing, blistering hot sun during the day, and swarms of mosquitoes in the twilight hours. Just thinking about it all was sickening - how much worse must it have been to live through such terrible things?

But as Sandburg had begun to relate his story, Jim became aware of something else, something that had puzzled him for some time, and had suspected, but now knew with certainty - and it confused him as much as it left him uncomfortable. That peculiar low, monotonous thumping he'd been hearing for weeks had sped up as Sandburg had begun his story - and for the first time, Jim consciously realized he was hearing the sound of Blair's heartbeat, and had heard it from the moment they'd met. He didn't know what it meant - that that sound was always there in the background - because he sure didn't hear anyone else's heartbeat unless he was really concentrating on them in his job as Sheriff, because he thought they might mean trouble. Almost unconsciously, he'd noticed that an increase in the heartbeat and more rapid, shallow breathing could be indicators of severe anxiety, potential lying or excitement. But he didn't have time to think about it because Blair had started to speak again.

"I did what I could to treat the sick and wounded in the prison, but it was never enough," Blair grated, his voice thick with the hideous memories of his helplessness, and his own quiet rage. Clearing his throat, not looking at Jim, he continued, "We heard the Union Army coming - we could hear the artillery for days, and then the musketry, getting closer. The guards got increasingly nervous, wanting to pull out, but Colonel Ralston, the Camp Commander, was sure the Rebel forces would prevail. His son, not being so certain, wanted to use the time remaining to wrest as much pain and terror from the prisoners as he could, before he lost his license to act with sadistic abandon. Anyway, he was torturing this kid, who couldn't have been old enough to fight but was in the Army anyway; he'd been captured about a month before. Jonas wanted that kid to die with terror in his eyes, and he…"

Blair's voice caught and he closed his eyes, shaking his head. "I couldn't stand it. I went berserk, I guess - I shoved him away from the kid, and we ended up wresting for the knife he'd been using - and…in the struggle…I killed him."

Jim didn't know what to say. In the weeks since he'd come to know Sandburg, he knew the kid held all life sacred - hell, he'd even felt badly that those murderous bank robbers had all been killed - so to have killed a man himself must have hurt something very deep inside of his heart. Must've damned near destroyed him. "It wasn't your fault," he said quietly, wanting to reach out and comfort, but frustrated that he didn't know how.

"I know," Blair replied, sounding very old and very weary. "Of course, Colonel Ralston didn't see it that way. He had me chained to a post and he whipped me - I think he planned to whip me to death. He didn't care that the Union Army was on the doorstep, or that the War was as good as over. He just wanted me dead, and he damned near succeeded."

Jim frowned, his eyes flickering in memory, and suddenly his gut clenched with nausea, utterly sickened by his dim recollection of the limp body of a skeletally thin man being freed from the whipping post, his back a ruin of bloody ribbons of skin and muscles with the slick white of bone visible in places along his ribs and spine. Horrified by his realization that he had seen Sandburg that day, he was almost overwhelmed by guilt that he'd done nothing then to help the younger man when he'd had the chance to do so - but he'd thought the beaten man dead - had never imagined anyone could survive such devastating abuse. He swallowed convulsively as he mumbled, "I was there."

"What?" Sandburg exclaimed.

"I was there, with the Army, when we liberated the camp," he explained slowly to the man he'd thought dead - as had every other witness in the crowded yard. It had been chaos, and he'd lost track of what happened to the 'body' of the whipped man as he and his men tried to restore order. The prisoners had been wild with grief and fury, raging against Ralston, who'd been dragged away for his own pathetic safety, imprisoned himself until he could be tried for his appalling treatment of the prisoners under his authority. "We heard from all the prisoners about this guy they called 'Doc' - about how they'd've died for sure if Doc hadn't saved their lives, and kept them alive. But they thought he was dead; that Ralston had killed him. It was _you_. They were talking about **_you_**."

"Yeah," Sandburg agreed, his voice husky, not realizing Jim had actually seen him that day. "I don't remember the rescue, to tell you the truth. I don't remember much of anything that happened for some time after. He'd, ah, beaten me before he chained me up to the post. It was three months before I was well enough to leave the hospital I was transferred to from the prison. As soon as I was discharged, I went back to Maryland, looking for Eliza; I needed to know she was alive and all right, you know? Stupid really. Don't know what else I expected - I guess I should never have gone back, never have hoped…I found her; she'd married Lucas. They were both very bitter about how the War ended and they treated me like a traitor. They, uh, **_despised_** me."

Pushing his hair back from his face, sitting a little straighter in his chair, Blair shrugged as he said, "That was about nine months ago. It was pretty clear that my life there was over and I didn't have much more than the clothes on my back, my medical kit, and my back pay to my name. I didn't have a clue where to go to start over. So, I bought some basic surgical instruments and a small supply of medicines and just started traveling around, stopping whenever I got someplace that folks needed a doctor, and then moving on again when the need was gone - I…well, I discovered that a lot of folks aren't comfortable with a Jewish doctor, if they have _any_ choice." He paused for a moment, shaking his head sorrowfully, and then shrugged as he looked back at Jim. "To tell you the truth, the big cities back east made me feel claustrophobic, surrounded by noise and squalor, the press of crowds pushing and shoving, always in a hurry. I've found it hard to be around so many people since, well, since Masonville. So, I wandered further and further west until I got here - and decided to try staying awhile, maybe make someplace 'home', again."

Seeing the dark concern for him in his friend's eyes, the honest sorrow, Sandburg summoned up the shadow of a smile as he said, "I guess I should thank you. Not only did you arrive in Bitterwood Creek in time to help stop those robbers from killing anyone, but it seems you also arrived in Masonville in time to save my life - and the lives of hundreds of other men. You have **_no_** idea of how much it meant to us to hear you guys coming - to **_know_** that we might actually survive and be able to go home again."

Shaking his head, Ellison tried to imagine the kind of betrayal and utter abandonment Blair must have felt when he'd finally made it back 'home' to Maryland and found he had no home there or anywhere - but Jim knew he was just trying to avoid remembering what the kid had endured in Masonville. Jesus, he wanted to hit something! For someone as gentle and decent as Sandburg to have been confined in that horror of a camp, starved and beaten as a way of life; forced to kill to save _another_ kid's life - because for all that he was a doctor, Sandburg had been very young - and then brutally battered and whipped, tortured very nearly to death…Jim didn't have the words to describe the combination of fury and disgust, pity and revulsion that churned in his gut, and he couldn't even begin to imagine how the kid had managed to survive so apparently whole. Because, unlike many, many others who had suffered in the War, nothing in his manner had ever given away the horror that he'd endured. Jim had heard stories since, of how men who'd been imprisoned in Masonville had later killed themselves, unable to feel worthy again, forever lost in the nightmare of the existence they'd known as prison inmates in that noisome hole - and other stories, of countless others who had sought oblivion in the bottle or through drugs…

…but this kid had just gone out looking for other people he could help. And when he'd found them, the ignorant morons had rejected him as soon as they didn't need him anymore. So…he went looking for other people to help…how many times in the past nine months had he picked up his courage and moved on looking for a place where he'd be allowed to settle, accepted for the good man he was?

"I don't know what to say, Blair - I'm sorry we didn't get there sooner," Ellison finally sighed. "God, I'm so sorry you had to endure all that…"

"It's not your fault, Jim," Sandburg replied. "Like I said, you, and the men with you, were our saviours, our heroes. Without doubt, I owe you my life." Suddenly, from the dark depths of his eyes, the distinctive sparkle that was all Sandburg's sprang into life and his expression and voice lightened from somber recollection to impishness, as he said teased, "You know, in some cultures, when one person saves the life of another, he becomes that person's 'blessed protector' - and is responsible for the one he saved for all the rest of his life."

Despite the jumble of his emotions, Jim couldn't help the smile that twitched in response. "You telling me I'm responsible for your welfare from here on in, Sandburg?"

"Uh-huh," Blair snickered. "So, I guess you're stuck in Bitterwood Creek - 'cause I kinda like it here and don't plan to move on anytime soon."

Jim sat back as he gazed fondly at the younger man, a little in awe to know he was facing the legendary 'Doc', a man who'd disappeared and was thought dead. But he frowned a little as he absorbed how very tired Sandburg was looking, and he wondered when the kid had last done anything that was just for fun, just to relax.

"What?" Blair asked, wondering about the frown.

"I was just thinking that if I'm your 'blessed protector', then I have to have some rights to be able to tell you to do what's good for you," Jim replied thoughtfully.

"Oh, yeah?" Sandburg quipped. "Well, good luck, man. I'm pretty used to doing things my own way."

"I was thinking that you look like you need to spend the afternoon under a shady tree upstream on the banks of the creek, catching fish…" Ellison drawled as he quirked one brow.

An eager grin lit Blair's face. "Oh," he temporized as he stood. "Now that I think about it, you know, you're right. Only makes sense that a blessed protector should have _some_ advisory rights - and as your doctor, I can say that I think you need the same medicine."

Rising, Jim laughed lightly as he slung an arm, for the first time, around Blair's shoulders. His need to touch Sandburg, to comfort him, moments before had been too raw, even too intrusive, given how hard Blair was struggling to keep his story as unemotional as possible and retain some measure of control. Jim respected and understood that need. But surely, a comradely touch, a quick hug of sorts, couldn't be wrong, and it assuaged Ellison's need to give some measure of physical affirmation and support to the younger man. "You know, partner," he said as they went to get their fishing gear, "I think we're going to make a pretty good team."

But much as he was willing to let Blair distract him from the horrors and pathos of his friend's story, Ellison felt overwhelmed by what Sandburg had endured. And Jim decided, then and there, that though Blair might think the 'blessed protector' bit was something of a joke to lighten the mood, he accepted it as a solemn undertaking. So long as he was around, Sandburg would never suffer like that again - **_never_**.

* * *

Life went on and, when no emergencies, sudden illnesses or confinements required the doctor's presence, Sundays became a ritual day of rest for the two servants of the citizens of Bitterwood Creek. Often, the two men went fishing, but once a month beginning in the early fall, when it was already growing too cool to linger long by the creek, they took to riding out to the Gold Ribbon Ranch, to visit with Simon and Joel, catch up with Jeb and Suzannah, and gradually get to know the ranch hands better. Neither of them was aware that their Sabbath habits reinforced their separateness from the community, their differences. Every Sunday, the people in the small town were reminded that their doctor was a Jew, someone of the race that was responsible for the betrayal and hideous crucifixion of their Saviour. Most of the women were offended that their Sheriff didn't seem to be a God-fearing man, though their husbands secretly envied the officer of the law his freedom. They'd've been fishing, too, most of them, if their wives hadn't dragged them off to the morning services.

The Indian Wars continued, low-burning fires in some areas of the west with the occasional atrocity of a stage ambush or a farm being burned out with all the victims wretchedly massacred, and hot conflagrations in other places as full scale battles erupted between the US Cavalry and various tribes of the Indian Nations. Though Bitterwood Creek and its environs seemed to be still safe, tensions were mounting as fears escalated, especially amongst those living on small isolated homesteads.

One night, as they were returning late from dinner with Simon and Joel, Jim reined in his horse as he held a hand up for silence. Blair, riding behind him on the mount Simon had sent into town for him months ago, a sleek tawny brown mare called Butternut, pulled back on his reins and waited, his eyes raking the darkness around them as he strained to hear what had alerted his friend. But, he knew it was almost certainly hopeless - the reason Jim took the lead on their rides back to town was because he could see so clearly in the dark that it might has well have been the full light of day, and his sense of hearing extended for what seemed like miles on the quiet prairie.

Finally, Jim kicked Lobo lightly, sending the black stallion forward at a slow walk; Blair and Butternut close behind. Shortly after, they came upon a pinto covered by a finely woven blanket - and not far off, Jim spotted the loose horse's rider lying crumpled on the ground. They both slid off their horses, approaching warily, Jim with his six-gun in his hand. But the Indian didn't stir. Jim picked up the hot, metallic scent of blood, the slow, deep respirations, and murmured quietly, "He's wounded, unconscious - bleeding a lot."

Blair pushed forward and dropped to one knee beside the fallen warrior, squinting to see where and how badly he'd been wounded. "There's a long gouge in his side, pretty deep, likely from a rifle shot," Sandburg murmured as he continued his examination. "And another wound in his left arm. He needs to be stitched up, Jim. We have to take him back with us."

Ellison hesitated only a moment, listening to the sounds only he could hear on the low night wind as it whispered through the long prairie grass, wondering if the wounded warrior had any friends nearby. But, no, he seemed to be alone - must've gotten separated from his war party. Though Jim was of two minds about taking the brave into town, pretty much knowing the reaction they'd get from the good citizens of Bitterwood Creek, it was a lot closer than heading back to Simon's place. He appropriated the Indian's knife from his war belt, and then helped Sandburg lift the warrior up over Butternut's saddle, ensuring he was secure. Mounting Lobo, he gave Blair a hand up to ride behind him. Ten minutes later, they carried the Indian from the yard behind their home into the infirmary, and Blair set to work while Jim bedded down their horses. The pinto had followed them into town, skittish but unwilling to leave his rider, so Jim looped a rope around his neck, and tied him in an open stall in their small stable.

Inside, Blair had turned up the oil lanterns and gotten busy cleaning the two wounds, while his instruments boiled on the stove. He worked as quickly as he could, wanting to be done before his patient regained consciousness. By the time Jim had come in from the stable, Sandburg had extracted the bullet from the warrior's arm, and had stitched up that wound. Next, he turned his attention to the deep gash and washed away the blood to get a better look at it. Skin and muscle had been torn for a space of about three inches just over the Indian's right hip, angling back to front. But for the powder burns, the injury looked fairly clean, so he simply pulled the tissue together and sewed the muscle and then the layer of skin back together.

"You know how folks are going to react when they hear…" Jim began slowly as he watched his friend work.

"He's a human being and he needs help," Blair cut in, his voice low but even. "He'll be okay; just needs rest and some fluids, mostly - and maybe a bath," he added, his nose wrinkling at the ripe scent. He powdered both wounds with herbs, and then covered them with clean linen bandages.

"I think we should tie him up, Chief," Ellison said reluctantly. "When he wakes up, he's going to be scared. And he didn't get those wounds from hunting deer…"

"Yeah, I figured that," Sandburg sighed as he turned away to the door to toss the bloody water outside, and then carried the basin back to his worktable where he poured in more hot water from the kettle on the small stove. "I don't really want to bind him - not his bad arm anyway. I've already immobilized it across his chest. When he wakes up, he's going to be weak and dizzy, in pain and disoriented - being tied won't reassure him any. I think it'll be all right. I'll stay down here with him. As soon as he's strong enough to leave, I'll show him to his horse in the back…"

"I'm not letting you stay down here alone with a patient who makes a habit of collecting scalps from white folks," Jim cut in with a look of exasperation. "He's **_dangerous_** …"

"Not right now, he's not," Blair countered firmly as he washed his hands clean of the warrior's blood. "If you want, you can bunk down here, too, tonight."

Shaking his head, Ellison pulled off his Stetson and duster, hanging them on a hook by the back door. When Blair Sandburg got that look in his eyes, and used that tone of voice, Jim had learned there was no point in arguing with him. It didn't look like either of them were going to get a lot of sleep that night.

It was nearing dawn when the warrior stirred, moaning a little as he came back to consciousness. Blair immediately began murmuring in a low, reassuring voice as he intently watched his patient awaken. Without even being really aware of the gesture, he reached out to lay a light hand on the man's shoulder, instinctively offering comfort. Jim rose from the nearby cot and came to stand by the end of the cot, his gun in his hand.

The Indian blinked and then froze, suddenly aware that he was in a very foreign place, a grimace of sharp pain on his face as he turned his face away from the lantern's light. It wasn't much, but Sandburg picked up on the reaction and squinted thoughtfully as he kept up murmuring simple words of reassurance, hoping that some of them might be understood. The brave's expression flattened, and he lifted his chin to stare at Jim, his dark eyes hard with suspicion but no fear, and then shifted his gaze to Blair. Sandburg very slowly reached out to lightly touch the bandages on the man's arm and hip and then pointed to himself. Watching intently, the brave gave one jerking nod, signaling he'd understood. Slowly, Sandburg poured a mug of water and, going on instinct, he added only one drop of laudanum, taking a tiny sip to show it was safe, and then bringing it to the Indian's lips, slipping one hand under his patient's head to help him lift it enough to drink. Thirstily, the warrior drank the full cup, and then sighed as he lay back down, once again watching them expressionlessly, but his eyelids very quickly grew heavy and closed.

Blair blew out a breath, but Jim waited until he could hear the Indian's respirations deepen into true sleep before holstering his gun. Looking up at Ellison as Jim shifted away from the end of the bed, Blair wondered whether to share his suspicions about the Indian, but decided to keep them to himself. He didn't really have anything to go on, it was just a feeling more than anything concrete - but he was pretty sure there was more than one man with enhanced senses in the room. Whether or not his patient had all five, like Jim, and was a bonafide sentinel, though, Blair doubted. He suspected that Jim would possibly be able to sense that - a kind of atavistic awareness of an enemy who possessed the same level of special capacities - even a kind of territorial instinct. But, that, too, was only speculation and he'd drive Jim nuts if he started blathering about those kinds of possibilities.

So he didn't say anything at all about it - just kept an eye out for other indications, and kept the dosage of laudanum low so he wouldn't overwhelm the Indian's sensitivities to the medication.

* * *

They might have been able to hide the Indian's presence from everyone in the town if little Josie Miller, daughter of the man who owned the small flour mill on the nearby river, hadn't fallen out of a tree and broken her arm. Her father, Davy, carried her to the doctor's office and then, not finding Blair there, headed straight back to the infirmary, calling out as he continued through the house.

The anxious father's shouts for help woke the warrior and Jim drew quickly to keep him settled in his bed, while Blair moved to meet Miller - but the man had gotten far enough down the hall to see into the infirmary and he froze, his mouth dropping open in stunned shock. "You've got an **_Indian_** in here?" he shouted in angry fear.

"Calm down, Davy - he's not hurting anyone and Jim's watching him," Blair soothed as he turned his attention to Josie, who was sniffling in pain. "What happened?" he asked, as he noticed her torn clothes, the bruises and the scrapes on her arms and knee.

"She broke her arm, I think, falling out of a tree," Miller replied, momentarily distracted back to his little daughter's needs.

"Well, we can fix that up," Blair replied encouragingly with a smile at Josie, his thumb gently brushing tears from her cheeks.

"I'm not taking her in there, near that savage," Miller grated, his body tight with tension.

"You don't have to - I can fix her up in the kitchen," Sandburg replied. "You just take her in there and I'll get the supplies I need."

It didn't take long to treat Josie's injury. Blair put a few drops of ether on a square of linen, and held it to her little pug nose and, in moments, she was deeply asleep on a blanket Blair had laid on their kitchen table. With sensitive fingers, he tracked the line of the break, and then drew the bone back into position, deftly splinting it and then binding the arm snugly with a roll of cotton bandage. Miller stood tensely by the table, watching, but at regular intervals his gaze strayed to the door to the hallway, as if expecting rampaging Indians to come at them at any moment. As soon as Blair was finished, Miller scooped his still sleeping child into his arms to carry her away to safety.

"She'll be nauseated when she wakes up, and in quite a bit of pain for a couple of days," Blair told him matter-of-factly. Handing Miller a small brown vial, he added, "Give her a drop of this in some sweet tea when she wakes up for the pain. After that, she can have willow-bark tea sweetened with lots of honey. No solid food till tomorrow, but she can have broth later if she's hungry. Her arm will take at least three weeks to heal, so no rowdy playing for a while. Bring her back in a couple of days, and I'll check the splint and make sure everything's still okay."

"That Indian should be hung," Miller growled, not distracted from his fear. "He's a murdering savage!"

"He's a man who was injured and needed help," Blair countered with a sigh as he pushed his hair behind his ears. "Look, Davy, maybe if we help these people, they won't see us as enemies - you ever think of that?"

Miller gave the smaller man a scornful look as he blustered, "You can't trust 'em, any of 'em. You shouldn't have brought him here - better he be left to die than made well again to kill more innocent people."

Blair tightened his jaw but didn't dispute the matter further; in some ways, he thought wearily, Davy probably had a point. But if there was never any compassion between the sides, for one another as simple human beings, if each side only ever dealt with the other with cold brutality, then what hope was there of any reconciliation and peace between them some day? "You should get Josie home and to bed," he directed quietly, lifting a hand to guide Miller toward the hallway back to the street entrance.

Less than half an hour later, a delegation of angry citizens gathered outside the back door of Sandburg's office and clinic. At the angry rumble of voices, the Indian stiffened with tension, his eyes darting from Blair to Jim and back again. Blair lifted his hands in a gesture of calm and peace. Keeping his actions smooth and unhurried, he touched his ear as the warrior watched him, and slightly shook his head. If the man's hearing was sensitive, the shouting would only aggravate him further. The brave's eyes narrowed as he watched the subtle gestures, giving nothing away, and when his eyes dropped, Blair just sighed and then went to meet his 'visitors'.

"We've come for the Indian," Clive shouted loudly.

"To string him up!" Silas growled.

"Nobody is stringing anybody up," Blair called back calmly as he stood with his spine straight and firmly pressed against the closed door. "He's injured and no danger to anyone, and the Sheriff has him under constant guard. Tomorrow, Jim and I will escort him far out of town and send him on his way."

"It was a big mistake to bring him here, Sandburg," Sam shouted angrily. "You endanger the whole town!"

Angry shouts of agreement backed up his claim.

"So, you want **_me_** to leave town, too, and never come back?" Blair countered sharply, his tone now hard.

That gave them pause. They all knew they needed a doctor, and he was good - he'd already saved a lot of lives, most of them children. They shuffled around, not having an answer.

Watching them, knowing he'd taken the steam out of their virulence, Sandburg repeated quietly, making the point he'd made to Davy Miller, "He'll be gone by noon tomorrow. And maybe when he tells his band of brothers that he was helped here, they'll leave us alone and move on to somewhere else."

Grumbling, the crowd drifted away - but the damage was done. They'd already seen Sandburg as different, and now they began to think he might be dangerous to have around.

* * *

Early the next morning, Sandburg changed the Indian's dressings and, content that the wounds were both healing well, he decided they could let the man go. After giving him some cooked eggs, bacon and bread, and some water as coffee didn't seem to appeal to him, Jim and Blair helped him out to the back and up onto his pinto. Blair had already saddled their horses while Jim watched his patient, and so they mounted up and escorted him out of town, taking the back trail along the creek.

Twenty minutes later, the two friends slowed their horses. Blair told the warrior he could go, waving out across the prairie to give meaning to his words. The Indian, who had spoken not a single word the entire time he'd been in their care, looked at both of them steadily for a long moment, his visage as impassive as ever. Finally, he kicked his pinto into movement and was shortly galloping away without ever once looking back.

"You're welcome," Sandburg muttered dryly as they turned their mounts back toward town. Jim just shook his head and kept his opinions to himself.

When they got back to town, they both noticed that an unseasonable deep freeze had settled into Bitterwood Creek, as folks ostentatiously went out of their way to avoid them, crossing the street to walk on the other side, turning their heads away while some, and not only Urseline Tucker, venomously mumbled 'Indian lover' just loudly enough to be sure Sandburg heard. Jim didn't much care, as he wasn't all that sociable to begin with, but he felt bad that it bothered Sandburg.

Long used to a certain degree of suspicion and hostility given his Jewish heritage, Blair had been aware that his acceptance by the townspeople was precarious, though he'd dared to hope that most had gotten used to him, accepted him - but almost everyone in town was quick to condemn his actions. Perhaps he couldn't blame them. Admittedly, they seemed almost as angry with Jim as they were with him. They were, understandably enough, very frightened of Indians. But - he didn't want to move on, yet again; he'd come to think of Bitterwood Creek as home. So, hoping they'd get past their anger in time, the younger man tried not to let the hurt of the very overt ostracism show, and he kept his head up as he ambled around town, greeting folks as if all were normal, forcing himself to smile, but Jim could see the sorrow in his eyes.

Inevitably, pride had to be swallowed when need overcame anger. Old Granny Makins 'took a turn' and her very evident chest pains scared her family enough that they sent for Blair. He increased her prescription of digitalis powder, warned her against eating anything with salt, prescribed gentle exercise and chatted amiably with the family. One of the Sloane kids tripped over his father's axe, cutting his foot, and again there was no choice but to ask for the doctor's help. Angus MacDonald slipped off the ladder while stocking shelves in his store, badly wrenching his back. Blair treated him first with hot water bottles to ease the cramped muscles, prescribed medication for the pain and fashioned a back brace for him, along with suggesting exercises that consisted of lying on the floor and slowly raising his legs a little ways off the ground, increasing his range over time, to strengthen his back and abdominal muscles. It was hard to shun Sandburg after he'd been so helpful and continued to be so pleasant. Gradually, the chill thawed, but the underlying distrust and fear didn't go away.

* * *

Winter blew in with a howling vengeance a couple of weeks later, bitter, icy winds driving hard pellets of snow across the prairie. The storm lasted two days and nights before moving on to leave behind the deep, heavy drifts of a white wonderland that sparkled blindingly under the brilliant, clear blue sky. The temperature fell like a stone, the cold seeping in under doors, through chinks in the wood-frame buildings, and around blanket-covered window frames so that, even with blazing fires in the stoves and fireplaces, it was impossible to fight off the drafty chill.

"Oh, man," Sandburg shivered miserably as he held his hands over the stove to warm them. "I **_hate_** the c-c-cold!" Even indoors, he was wrapped in layers of wool shirts, and Ellison had no doubt his friend was wearing at least one, if not two, pairs of long johns under his jeans. Two thick pairs of socks covered his feet and he had a long woolen scarf wrapped around his neck.

Jim poured two mugs of steaming coffee and pushed one into his friend's hands. "Here, this'll warm you up and put hair on your chest."

"Like I need more fur on my chest," Blair grimaced and then shivered again as he sipped the restorative beverage. "And then, maybe I do."

Grinning, Jim told him, "Cheer up, Chief. Winters are long out here on the prairie - you'll have plenty of time to get used to the cold."

Throwing his tall friend a withering look, Sandburg muttered, "Gee, thanks for the sympathy, big guy - not to mention that encouraging bit of news. You're all heart, Ellison."

Jim just laughed and set about making their breakfast.

* * *

Though Ellison's work slowed down in the bitter weather, if anything, Sandburg's increased. People came down with chills that grew into pneumonia; many others suffered chilblains and even some minor frostbite. And babies still insisted on being born…

Mindful of how his predecessor had met his untimely and tragic end the winter before, Blair packed his medical bag with a certain degree of trepidation as early dusk fell and the blustery, bitter wind keened down the street outside. It was probably crazy to go; Sadie's fourth child wasn't due for a couple of weeks, but he'd not liked the look of her the last time he'd been out to check on her. He couldn't explain it, but he had a compelling, ultimately irresistible urge to head out to the isolated homestead immediately, despite the miserable weather.

"You want me to go with you, Sandburg?" Jim asked, sensing his best friend's nervousness.

"Nah, I'll be all right, thanks," Blair replied with a wan attempt at a smile. It was stupid, he knew it, but he couldn't shake his sense of impending doom, attributing it to his antipathy for the cold as well as his concern about Sadie. Silently, he told himself sternly to _grow up and be a man_ , as he replied out loud, "Their farm's only about five miles out of town. Depending on how things go, I could be out there for a day, maybe two - far too long for the Sheriff to be absent from his duties."

Jim shrugged and nodded, but he remained uncertain. Still, it was probably only Sandburg's dread of the freezing five miles between town and the homestead that was making him look so - unnerved. He went out to saddle Butternut while Blair finished getting his gear together, and then stood in the entrance of the stable to watch Blair ride away, until he could no longer see - or hear - the horse and rider as they disappeared into the night.

The first morning after Sandburg had headed out to the Wilkinson place, Ellison felt restless. The town was quiet and his own paperwork was caught up, so he busied himself around the house, washing the floors and cupboards in the upstairs bedrooms, the main hall, kitchen and infirmary. A man who'd spent more than two decades in the military, Ellison knew how to clean, and he liked things neat and orderly. After he'd finished the common areas of the house and still felt unaccountably unsatisfied, he decided to tackle the least neat and orderly room in the whole place: Sandburg's office. Not that it was a disaster area but, inevitably, medical books were pulled from the shelves built into the wall, to lie haphazardly on the desk or the table by one of the upholstered reading chairs, usually open to the last page referenced. The niches of the roll-top desk were jammed with medical journals, recipes for various medicinal remedies, odd bits of paper with jotted notations, and the writing surface was littered with quill pens, stubby, chewed pencils, bottles of ink, more loose blank pieces of paper of varying sizes, a small hammer to test reflexes, boxes of matches, and various and sundry other odds and ends. Jim sorted and stacked, returned books to their proper place on the shelves and then washed the floor. Last but not least, he ran a cloth that he'd dampened with linseed oil over every wooden surface until it gleamed.

As he dusted the last piece of furniture in the room, the locked cabinet in which Blair kept his patient records, Jim found himself thinking again of the notes the kid was keeping on him. It was true they were locked away, but Jim remained uncomfortable about them. Every time Blair came up with new tests, he'd disappear sometime afterward, claiming he had to work on his records, and Ellison had known which records he meant. Shaking his head, still not sure why the damned notes were necessary, Jim considered rifling the lock and burning the file, but he knew that was out of the question. Sandburg had never shown anything but trust in him, and he trusted Sandburg, right? Right. So he turned away, heading back to the infirmary to dust in there, and to check Doc's supply of bandages.

Hours passed while he busied himself around the unusually silent, too still house, but no matter how much he immersed himself in the routine domestic chores, he was conscious that something was nagging at him, leaving him uncomfortable…until he realized it was the very silence and stillness of the house itself that had his teeth on edge. Which was odd because, for more than twenty years, Ellison had craved peace and quiet, commodities not readily attainable in the close communal living quarters of the military. All during those years, Ellison had always pretty much kept to himself and had found a kind of isolation even amongst so many others. Oh, he knew he could be irascible and sometimes moody, so other officers tended to avoid him; and, as an officer, he hadn't fraternized with the men. Sure, sometimes it had been lonely, but he preferred whatever measure of solitude he could get, so he'd never gone out of his way to be pleasant or accommodating.

But with only the two of them living in the house, and Sandburg being the kind of sociable person he was, Jim hadn't been able to remain aloof. Blair just kept talking to him, telling him about the latest kid who'd been born, or pestering Jim about more tests, or offering to play a game of cribbage. And if Jim wasn't interested in conversation, Blair just went off humming something softly under his breath, as he did whatever doctors do when patients weren't demanding his attention…mix medicines, wash or roll bandages, whatever; always busy, never seeming to stop except to read the medical journals that came for him on the stage or work on his patients' records. Even when he was quiet, Jim was conscious of his heartbeat. And even though he was often out, tending to people who were sick or injured, Sandburg wasn't usually gone for a full day, let alone for days a time. Ellison was honestly surprised at how uncomfortably empty the place felt without Blair puttering around, coming up with questions, making observations about folks in town, cooking supper and just being companionable, or that the prolonged absence of his friend's heartbeat would leave him feeling increasingly anxious and unsettled. As he set out on his evening rounds, he found himself wondering if the kid would be back that night, and was a more than a little startled to realize how _very_ much he was missing Sandburg's company.

* * *

Sadie was having a hard time. When Sandburg arrived, Jake was frantic and couldn't believe his eyes when the Doc came to the door, saying he'd just had a feeling she'd be needing him. The baby was early, but her water had broken just before Blair arrived. Shrugging off his coat, he smiled at the wide-eyed tiny twin girls by the fire and headed straight back to the sparsely furnished bedroom in the back. The wooden building was chilly, the wind keening a high note as it snuck in through cracks and chinks in the rough log cabin, but Sadie was sweating profusely. Moving to her side, he laid a gentle palm upon her clammy brow as he took her pulse and noted the puffiness in her fingers. Murmuring softly, a soothing, calming ripple of sound, he shifted to lift the blankets from the bottom of the bed and saw that her ankles and feet were also badly swollen. But the rest of her body was gaunt, her colour unhealthy and she was holding her great, swollen belly with trembling hands.

"Just breathe in and out slowly," Blair coached, "in through your nose and out through your mouth. I know it hurts and that you're feeling rough, but we're going to get through this. That's it, slowly."

Gradually, the anxious tension of her body eased and he moved again to check on the baby, leaning down close with his ear to her belly to hear the distant heartbeat. It was fast, but not dangerously so, at least not yet. Looking up at her as he stood, his hands moving soothingly on her skin as he checked the babe's position, he said, "The little one is fine, big and strong…have you decided on a name yet?"

"Merissa May, if she's a girl," Sadie gasped weakly, but raised a wan, tentative smile as she continued, "an' Jacob Blair, if'n he's a boy."

Caught by surprise, Sandburg's lips parted but then he smiled with sweet sincerity as he bowed his head in acknowledgement of the tribute. "You and Jake honour me. Thank you. Now, you just relax, we've got a while to go yet. I want you to try to sleep."

Turning his face away from hers, he closed his eyes as he concentrated on what his hands were telling him. The child's head was too high, the baby in a breach position. There was time yet, the position could change, but it worried him - as did Sadie's weakened, toxic condition. Her body had been sorely depleted by her two previous pregnancies, all of them too close together. Existing on the edge of exhaustion, she'd not been ready to create another child so soon. But life was insistent, creation and re-creation a constant, driving reality. Children often died in the harsh realities of subsistence on the isolated prairie - it was instinctive to have as many as possible, to ensure the future. However, the life force, the drive to survive was also both persistent and staggering in its power, so Blair hoped that both Sadie and her new baby would survive this birthing.

Going back to talk with Jake, he directed that water be boiled for the willow-bark tea he wanted Sadie to drink to help ease her discomfort. And then he took an armload of wood to build up the small fire in the other room, to keep it as warm as he could. Later, after she'd drunk the medicinal potion, he explained to both her and Jake that he needed to help the baby turn, so that her delivery could go as easily as possible. Throughout the long night and all of the next day, he kneaded her belly, coaxing the baby to shift, but it was a stubborn little thing, and seemed intent upon hitting the ground running as opposed to taking a big breath of the world first.

Her contractions would start and then stop again, exhausting her with pain, so that she grew weaker. Normally, Sandburg would have had her up and walking around to promote circulation and the onset of delivery, but in her sorely weakened condition, he insisted she remain in bed whenever she fretted about getting up to help Jake with the other children. When her respirations became even more laboured, Blair had Jake come in to sit behind her, lifting her shoulders and back up against his chest, so that she could breathe more easily. As evening dragged into night, he tried not to let his own anxiety show - it would only frighten them and not do a bit of good. Finally, as the second dawn peeked through the dusty, faded curtains over the small, shuttered window, the child shifted and Blair swallowed in relief. He could only hope, now, that the cord hadn't gotten caught around the little one's neck.

The contractions had been coming harder and faster since just after midnight, and by the time the sun had risen over the horizon, Sadie was weeping and keening with the effort, her breath whistling through clenched teeth. Knowing it wasn't yet time, that she'd not dilated enough, Blair kept slowing her down, having her breathe deeply and evenly, if raggedly. Until finally, just before midday, he knew she was ready for the final push, and none too soon. Her skin was parchment, drawn tight over the bones of her face, and dark shadows starkly emphasized her glazed, sunken eyes. She was exhausted and couldn't last much longer without the relief and spiritual burst of restorative glory that accompanied the delivery of new life.

In the other room, Blair could hear Jake giving the twins their lunch, hearty vegetable soup and two-day-old bread. The baby was fussing, hungry, but her mama was too busy to feed her. He could just see the head crowning when the first, guttural yells sounded from somewhere outside.

"Blessed Jesus!" Jake cried out, his voice sharp with horror. The yipping and keening wails got louder as they came closer, circling around the isolated, small, log cabin.

Sadie was too lost in her own agony to take notice, but Sandburg felt the bottom fall out of his belly - there was no mistaking what those blood-curdling war cries meant. Coaching her to pant through the lengthy contractions, to slow her breaths in-between, like she knew well how to do, he turned and pushed through the heavy curtain that separated the two rooms. Jake had grabbed up his old musket, and pushed open one of the shutters of the front window to shoot at the attackers, hoping the sound of gunshots would chase them off. But after two discharges, loud and shocking explosions that made the baby shriek with terror and the twins cower as they whimpered helplessly, the firing mechanism jammed.

Jake struggled with the weapon, but it was useless. Lifting horrified eyes toward Sandburg, he shook his head helplessly.

"Take the twins and the baby into the back," Sandburg directed him swiftly, even as the thud of spears impacted on the walls and the door. "Give the baby Sadie's breast, and put the twins beside her on the bed. Your new baby's coming, and you need to be with her."

When Jake hesitated, stiff with fear, Blair picked up the infant, thrusting her into Jake's arms and then gathered up the twins to hustle them into the bedroom. As Jake followed him, he instructed, "Let the newborn slide out onto your palm. Quickly make sure the cord isn't twisted around the neck. Push on Sadie's belly after, to help her expel the afterbirth. Bind the cord tightly and cut it - you know what I mean. You've seen it before."

The year-old infant latched onto her mother's breast, suckling contentedly, while the two little toddlers grabbed Sadie's arm and held on tight, quaking with fear. Blair left them and swiftly pulled the curtain closed, turning to face the sturdy door even as the assault loosened its hinges, and the brackets supporting the crossbar, from the wooden doorframe.

Blair's gaze raked the small, cluttered living area. He saw a knife, and he could break up a chair to use as a club - but would fighting make any difference now? Might it make things worse, only feed the killing frenzy? His throat was parched with fear, his chest tight with the knowledge that he was probably about to die, but he forced the surge of incipient panic back down, not having time or patience with it. The others were hidden behind the curtain, the children silent, the twins in terror, the infant at peace. Sadie had been muffling her anguish by biting on a pillow even before the Indians had attacked, and Jake knew enough to guard his family first, however much he might loathe another man facing the enemy in his home.

Sandburg knew it was a long shot, and probably hopeless, but there was a chance, if only the barest of hopes, that the Indians might think he was alone - do what they would, take what they needed, and go. He felt a sudden immense sorrow about what was likely to happen. But, oddly, not only because he was certain that he was about to die, but also because he knew he'd never see Jim again, and he felt guilty, somehow, as if he was abandoning Jim when Ellison still needed him.

The cabin was dark even in midday, with the shutters closed and barred; the only light that of the flickering fire in the hearth and the glow of an oil lantern on the rustic table. The battering on the door continued, the wild yelling and yipping louder, excited, triumphant. He swallowed and took a deep breath as the bar across the door gave way and the door burst open to bang against the wall. As five or six war-painted Indians with feathers in their wild manes of hair, wearing worn fringed leather breeches and animal skin robes, burst into the room, Blair raised his arms away from his body, palms out and down, gazing at them steadily as he called out, his voice clear and compelling, "No, don't! Please, stop!"

The lead warrior entered with his hatchet already in the air, primed for a killing blow, but as others jostled in behind him, the tall, terrifying Indian paused a moment in sudden confusion. The man before him stood in the shadows of uncertain light with the glare of the brightness of the day catching him through the open door, throwing him into stark relief. His long, thick hair was a halo of burnished curls, his face pale but resolute and his brilliantly blue eyes smoky with emotion. His hands were lifted wide from his body, open and unarmed, and when he spoke in the sudden silence, his voice was firm, compelling. This was not an enemy gibbering in fear, scrambling from his fate, terrified of death, but a man strong and possessed of dignity, somehow commanding in his surrender. But the warrior's jaw tightened with purpose and his eyes flashed as he drew his arm back, ready to plunge the sharp stone axe into the white man's skull…

…only to have his arm grabbed and held as another warrior pushed past, standing between him and his victim. There were sharp words and shouting, angry and insistent, but the attack was broken off. Blair blew out a hitching sob, but kept his hands up and stood rock steady as he waited to see what was happening, his eyes wide and dark with fear. The second brave turned, then, to look at him - and, with a start of shock, Sandburg recognized the warrior he'd treated months before. The taller man's eyes were as dark and inscrutable as ever, his face as impassive, garish with its streaks of paint. The warrior shouted something to the others, hard and commanding, then he gripped Sandburg's arm, hauling him abruptly from the cabin, while the others hastily grabbed up food from the worktable and blankets from the stack in the corner.

Outside, Sandburg was thrown up onto the back of a pony, the warrior leaping up behind him. The biting, icy wind cut through his thin clothing and he shivered wretchedly with cold, shock and fear. He didn't know why he was being taken, or where. And he was afraid, very afraid, of what would be done to him before they let him die…

In the back room, through a gap in the curtain, Jake saw it all happen - and then saw the first Indian look directly at him and bare his teeth in a snarl, but the terrifying warrior turned away, as they all did, rushing back into the swirl of blustery snow. In seemed only seconds before they were pelting away across the white vastness of the prairie.

Sadie screamed, a high, guttural grunt of effort, as the baby burst from her body, and Jake turned in time to aid his first son into the world. Jacob Blair Wilkinson wailed loudly against the cold, drafty air, indignant and enraged by such a rude welcome.

* * *

As the second day dragged on with no sight of the town's doctor, Ellison told himself that Blair must have called it right when he'd said he could be gone a couple of days - and the Sheriff attributed his growing sense of anxious concern, as the day dragged on, to worry about the Wilkinson family. With three little ones already to be cared for, it would go hard for them all if Sadie died of complications. Jim didn't know her at all well, only having seen her once, six months before, when they'd all come in on the buckboard to get supplies at the store. He'd thought, then, that she looked too thin and exhausted and he knew Sandburg had been increasingly worried about her, as her pregnancy had progressed.

However, as the day drifted into evening and the wind kicked up, Jim found himself again looking down the long, wide street, his feeling of edginess aggravated by the distant howling of a wolf somewhere out on the prairie. All afternoon, he'd had an urge to saddle up and ride on out to the Wilkinsons', to see if…what? If he could help deliver a baby? Ellison snorted and shook his head as he let himself into their home to make something to eat. Maybe he'd leave some soup heating on the stove - chances were, Blair would make it back sometime that evening, frozen solid and needing something to warm him up. But Sandburg didn't come home, and though Ellison waited until it was late, frequently checking out the back to see if he could hear Butternut plodding home, Jim finally gave up and went to bed. He was being foolish. Sandburg was a grown man and didn't need someone worrying over him. He'd likely be home before dawn. But Jim didn't sleep well; his restless dreams were broken repeatedly by the seemingly endless yipping and howling of the still agitated wolf.

Jim woke to a silent house, sighing as he asked himself just how long it could take to deliver a baby? But his restlessness and, though he hated to admit it, his concern, kept gnawing at him. Finally, feeling ridiculous, he had just started to saddle Lobo to ride on out to the homestead to see how things were going - when he heard Butternut galloping home. "About time," Ellison muttered as he stepped out of the stable to greet his friend, but his restless anxiety spiked into full alarm when he saw that the horse was riderless.

"Where is he, girl?" he asked the mare as he put Butternut into her stall, stripped off her bridle and saddle to place a warm blanket over her back, and filled the manger with hay and a handful of oats for sweetening. He'd checked her over, as well as her saddle, but there was nothing to explain why she'd come back alone, no note, no clues of any kind. Not knowing if maybe Sandburg had been thrown, Jim hastily grabbed up his bedroll and the saddlebags he kept packed with emergency supplies; he secured a small hatchet, along with a shovel, into loops on his saddle, shoved a rifle into the stock. Though he was trying hard not to jump to conclusions, or to let his concerns get out of hand, he knew Butternut wouldn't have come in on her own unless something was wrong. If Blair had fallen, he might have a broken arm or leg, and Jim might have to fashion a splint or maybe a travois. Working with swift, economical movements, Jim tried not to think about the wolf he'd heard for most of the day and night before, but which was now silent; in the depths of winter, hungry wolves wouldn't hesitate to attack a lone man…and Blair didn't have a weapon to drive them off.

The mare snorted unhappily as Ellison swung up onto Lobo's back and rode out, setting as brisk a pace as he could through the thick drifts of snow.

When he arrived at the homestead without having spotted any sign of Sandburg on the snow-swept trail, he leapt up onto the covered porch and pounded on the solid wooden door that looked slightly askew on its hinges. Moments later, Jake opened it and waved him inside.

"I guess Doc's horse made it back," the beefy thirty-year-old farmer said, his voice tight with sorrow and regret, his face pallid with exhaustion.

"Is he here?" Jim asked, looking around the small frame house toward the door to the bedroom in back. One baby, no more than a year old, was in a small cradle by the fire, and two toddlers, twin girls, sat close by, staring up at him with wide solemn eyes.

"No," Jake replied with bitter, helpless anger, as he shook his head, "they took him yeste'day afternoon."

" ** _Who_** took him?" Jim demanded, wanting to shake information out of the big, sturdy farmer who was so slow in giving him the facts.

"Indians," Jake spat out with a shudder. "They attacked after I jus' finished feedin' the kids their noon meal. Doc was in with Sadie - she was havin' a hard time, the baby was turned wrong or somethin', but Doc done what was needed and it finally seemed to be goin' all right. Anyways, I tried to defend us, but my musket jammed and they broke in - all painted an' yellin', hatchets raised like they was goin' to kill us all. But Doc, he come out of the back when the attack started, and he made me take the kids back with Sadie, and he put hisself between the Indians an' all o'us. One was ready to club him with an axe, but another shouted somethin', I don't know what, an' grabbed the attacker's arm a'fore the hatchet could fall. Next thing I knew, they hustled Doc on out o' here, grabbed some food and blankets and was gone. I couldn' leave Sadie - she was birthin' the baby when they's attacked…a little boy - or the girls - I didn' know what t' do. But when I went t' the barn t' feed the animals this mornin' 'n saw Butternut, I figgered if'n I set her loose, she'd find her way back t' town. I cain't write, so's I couldn't send a note with her, but I figgered you'd realize somethin' was wrong…"

"Which way did they go?" Ellison demanded sharply, his voice and eyes hard.

"North - the savages took 'im north," Jake replied bitterly. Sighing, he shook his head. "It's a damn shame, a tragedy - good man like that - I don' know how people 'round here will manage without him…and, well, I'm real sorry, Sheriff, I know Doc was yer friend."

Unwilling to accept that Sandburg was lost to them for good, Jim bristled as he growled, "He still is. I'll find him." He was turning toward the door, impatient to set out after Blair, but Jake grabbed his arm.

"He's gone, Sheriff - they done killed him fer sure by now. There ain't nothin' ya c'n do," Jake counseled thickly, sounding sincerely grief-stricken. "Y'll jes' get yerself killed, too!

Pulling his arm away, Ellison growled, "He's **_not_** dead - and I'm going to bring him back."

The icy blue eyes left no room for doubt so, although Jake thought Jim was crazy to head out after the murderous Indians alone, he nodded and offered, "Ya be need'n some supplies. Give me a minute."

The other man bustled around the cupboards, filling an old flour sack with bread, cold meats and cheese. Carrying the bag with him, he hurried toward the few blankets and fur rugs left in the corner to pull out a big bearskin, bringing both to Jim, and then he grabbed Sandburg's coat and medical bag from the hooks by the door to give to the Sheriff as well. "Good luck," he murmured. "I'll…I'll get on int' town in the next day or so an' let folks know…"

"Thanks," Jim replied briskly. "Someone can get a message to Simon Banks to come in and cover off my duties 'til I get back." And then he turned and slammed out of the house. He secured the sack of supplies, Blair's bag and coat, and finally the rolled bearskin to his saddle and mounted up, turning Lobo north as he urged his big mount into a gallop.

* * *

Jim thanked his good fortune that there'd been no fresh snow overnight, as the trail broken through the snow had been somewhat obscured by the wind, but was still faintly visible as it cut across the vast, glittering sea of endless white. Squinting against the glare, reminding himself to keep the lantern with the white base in his head, the one that represented vision, turned low, he held a tight rein on his emotions as he gave Lobo his head, setting a fast pace - maybe too fast to be maintained in the sub-zero weather - but he couldn't bring himself to slow down. It had been almost twenty-four hours since Blair had been taken by a war party and he didn't like to think about what could be done to a man in that length of time. Instead, he focused his thoughts on trying to understand why Sandburg had been taken, and all the others left alive. It wasn't surprising that the Indians were looking for supplies, food especially, and blankets or furs. A fast-moving war party, trying to stay a jump ahead of the cavalry, couldn't carry a lot of goods with them or take time out to hunt, and this sudden cold snap after the blizzard would have left them vulnerable. But - why take Blair? Jim's thoughts turned back to the Indian they'd helped months earlier, and he wondered if there was any connection. He couldn't think of anything else that would have stopped the massacre back at the farm, and he clung to the hope that Sandburg had been taken for some good reason, and not simply for the grizzly amusement of torturing an enemy through a long winter's night, and claiming a rich scalp as the final prize.

Onward he rode, at first oblivious to the bitter cold, but gradually it seeped into his bones, leaving him thoroughly chilled. When it was clear that this was going to be a long ride, he slowed Lobo to a steady lope, knowing he couldn't afford to drive his faithful stallion into the ground; if he did, they'd both freeze to death and Sandburg would be on his own in enemy hands, with no hope of rescue. As for the rescue itself, Jim wasn't sure what he'd do when he finally caught up with the marauding band, having to leave that planning until he got there and saw exactly what he was up against.

The sun sank in the western sky, and then set, the horizon a blaze of fire against the eternal cold of the flame-splashed snow. And still he rode on, increasing the range of his vision to see more clearly in the fading light of dusk. Finally, in the icy darkness of the bitter night, he knew he'd have to stop. Lobo needed a break, and so did he. If he didn't warm up his feet and hands, he'd be no use when he did find Sandburg. Shivering violently with a deep chill, he reined in under a copse of trees for shelter and, hopefully, to find deadwood for a fire. Stiffly, he dismounted, and kicked snow off the frozen grass below for Lobo, before scrounging under the trees for wood with his small hatchet. He felt lucky when he came upon an old fallen tree, the wood on top frozen with snow but, after he'd dug down deep enough, he found the branches trapped underneath dry. He chopped up a goodly amount and hauled it back to his cold campsite, using a match from the box he carried in his saddlebag to get the fire started. Clumsy with cold, aching with it, he pulled off his bedroll, the bearskin, saddlebags with his basic cooking utensils and meager survival supplies of hard tack, beef jerky and coffee, and the sack of food Jake had given him. Wrapping himself in his bedroll, and then pulling down Lobo to lie at his back, he hauled the bearskin over both of them and huddled by his horse, glad of the animal's warmth as he waited for his food, and the frozen water in his canteen, to thaw by the fire before he could eat or make coffee. Too thirsty to wait, he satisfied his immediate need with a couple of handfuls of snow.

Later, after he'd eaten and some of the chill had left his body, he sat huddled between Lobo and the fire, staring into the night, thinking about Sandburg - and praying to a God he didn't believe in that his best friend was still alive and in one piece.

* * *

Awaking to the pre-dawn chill, his fire having died sometime during the night, Jim shivered but resolutely climbed out of his nest to face the day. Deciding to forego coffee, he pulled out some jerky and hard tack, chewing the tough, dry food vigorously as he sorted out his gear and got it all loaded back on Lobo. Mounting up, he set off again, heading north.

About two hours after dawn, he knew he was getting close. He could smell smoke on the air, and hear the distant low hum of muted voices. Assuming the camp had a lookout, he slid off Lobo's back to make a lower silhouette against the horizon. Taking the horse's reins as he dropped to one knee, he widened and lengthened his sense of vision, and spotted the distant campsite - pale, snow-covered buckskin tents blending almost invisibly against the surrounding snow. It looked like a fair-sized encampment nestled against a growth of forest. Chewing on his lip as he loped closer in a crouched run, Lobo trailing after him, Ellison reached out with his hearing, struggling to find the sound of Sandburg's voice. Finally, with a surge of such profound relief that his chest ached with it and he had to swallow the sudden lump in his throat, he heard the familiar cadence and tones of his best friend intermingled with a low, rumbling voice that spoke halting English. Using the trick Sandburg had helped him master, of aligning his sight to his sense of sound, he picked out the tent that housed his friend. Tilting his head unconsciously to hear better, he listened until he got a name - 'Swift Eagle'.

Frowning thoughtfully, Ellison again studied the camp, and picked out the sentries - too many to take on - far too many to fight his way in and out. Not that the overwhelming numbers dissuaded him; he was going in to get Sandburg, whatever the odds. Turning away, leaving his best friend behind, was not an option. But, maybe, fighting wouldn't be necessary. Remounting Lobo, he walked the horse toward the encampment, moving at a steady, unhurried pace and, as he got closer, he wrapped the reins around the pommel of his saddle, and rode with his hands up and palms out, the universal sign of offering no threat.

He heard a shout on his left and then three warriors were riding out to meet him, lances held out threateningly, but he didn't waver or slow his advance. They rode up fast, and then around him, shouting and yipping aggressively as they circled, but they didn't attack. Lobo twitched under his legs, and Ellison spoke low and soothingly to his mount, settling him down as Jim continued to urge him forward in the stately walk. When the Indians cut across his path and stopped, forcing him to come to a halt, he said clearly but not aggressively, "I'm here to see Swift Eagle and my friend, Sandburg, the doctor." And then he began to ride around them.

One of the braves raised his lance as he shouted something that sounded like a command to stop. But a yell from the camp stayed his throw. Ellison looked past the warriors and saw another approaching quickly. Even at a distance, Jim recognized the Indian they'd aided months before. As the warrior drew closer, Jim called out, "I'm here to get my friend, Sandburg, the doctor…uh, our medicine man."

The familiar warrior shouted something to the others, and they grudgingly backed their mounts out of Ellison's path, falling in on either side and behind him as an escort, as he continued his journey toward the encampment. Moving at an unhurried pace, Jim took time to study the small village of less than a dozen conical tents. It was a war camp; there were no women or children around the small fires, only warriors, their faces and arms streaked with paint, their hair loosely caught in braids and festooned with feathers. Some remained crouched around the tiny fires, feeding the flames with only dry wood to lessen the smoke, and tending to clay pots that steamed in the cold, crisp air. But most had stood to stare at the intruder, watching him intently, their animal skin robes pulled tightly around their shoulders to block the wind. No one spoke.

As he drew closer, Jim picked up the scent of sickness, and blood. There were wounded, somewhere, out of sight. But even the wounded were silent, schooled as children to be wary and ever watchful. He didn't see Sandburg, but knew Blair was inside the center tent with another man. As he crossed the perimeter of the camp, warriors stood aside to let him pass as he angled toward his goal. The low flap of the center tent was pushed up and out - an old man bending to leave its shelter and then standing to hold the flap as Sandburg crept out and stood.

Jim saw Blair look around, wondering what was going on, and then see him. Sandburg froze, his expression one of shocked and amazed disbelief, and then the flash of relieved joy in his eyes pierced Ellison to the heart. He heard the muted, incredulous whisper, _"You came after me?"_ and then Blair was walking toward him, stopping as Lobo stopped, his eyes never leaving Jim's face, as if he was afraid if he blinked, Ellison would vanish like smoke in the wind.

"Jim," he scolded softly, when he could find his voice, though the grateful glow on his face belied his words. "Are you _nuts_? Coming after me alone? At all?"

"Bitterwood Creek needs a doctor, Sandburg," Ellison drawled as he dismounted. Moving resolutely toward the younger man, he drew Blair into a tight hug. "I'm glad to see you, too, Chief," he murmured quietly.

"Ah, Jim," Sandburg sighed, his voice quavering a little as he embraced his best friend. "I never expected…"

"I know," Ellison cut in, as he stood back. "I've come to take you home."

Blair nodded and then turned to the old man who, despite his advanced years, still stood tall with an air of dignified calm and strength. "Swift Eagle, this is my very good friend, Jim Ellison. He helped me take care of your son, Deer Stalker."

Swift Eagle nodded solemnly. "You are welcome in our camp, Watchman. I've been expecting you."

"Oh, yeah?" Jim replied, made uncertain by the title given him, but figuring the old man knew from the badge on his coat that he was a lawman. "Well, that's good. If you don't mind, we'll be leaving now."

But the old man shook his head as he lifted his hand toward his tent. "First, you must warm yourself by my fire, and eat. It is a long, and cold, journey back to your village."

Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, Jim nodded and followed the old man and Blair inside, ducking under the low opening, and very much welcoming the smoky warmth of the interior after the biting cold outside. As he took his seat on the furs by the fire, he asked, "What did they want you for, Sandburg?"

"They had a couple of warriors that needed treatment - though they're pretty good at taking care of their own, the men needed surgery to get out bullets," Blair replied. His eyes shadowed and his voice so low only Jim could hear him, he continued cautiously, "I'm not sure they're going to live. Could be trouble if they don't."

"Fear not, 'one who guides', you have done your best and will come to no harm from us," Swift Eagle interjected as if Blair had spoken out clearly. When both white men gaped at him in surprise, he smiled sparingly. "I, too, am a Watchman. My Guide, and brother in time, is our tribe's Shaman - you would call him a Medicine Man."

Blair squinted in thought, remembering the war party's old healer, who'd helped him care for the injured men, as he replied, "You mean Whispering Waters?"

Swift Eagle nodded, replying with a thin smile, "He has that name because his voice sounds like water tumbling over rocks in the river."

"Well, this is all very interesting," Jim said quietly, thinking briefly that the old Indian could also be describing the calming sound of Sandburg's voice, "but we really need to be going."

Using a wooden spoon to ladle out thick glops of stew from the clay pot that was sitting in the ashes of his fire, dropping it into sturdy clay bowls, Swift Eagle nodded serenely. "Eat, and then you may go in peace."

The venison stew tasted wild and strong, but not displeasing. As both men ate, Swift Eagle watched them, his head tipped curiously to one side. "You seemed…surprised," he finally said, having remembered the word he wanted, "when I called you Watchman."

Jim looked up and nodded. "How did you know I was coming?" he asked cautiously. Though the old man exhibited no signs of threat, there was something about him that raised Jim's hackles.

Gesturing toward Sandburg, the old man replied, "The wolf spirit of Touch That Heals came to tell him you were not far behind, but he did not see or understand."

"Wolf spirit?" Blair repeated, his brows lifting in surprise.

"Yes, your spirit guide," Swift Eagle replied. Turning to Jim, he said, "I sense that you also do not see the black jaguar that walks at your side."

Jim swallowed as he looked around the dim interior of the circular tent that would comfortably accommodate a dozen men, noting spears, bows, quivers of arrows, and several sheaths containing knives in the flickering shadows. "No - I don't," he answered evenly, wondering if the old man was crazy, but he shivered when he remembered the persistent howl of a wolf.

Blair was suddenly smiling, his eyes alight with insatiable curiousity, and Jim shook his head, hiding his smile of amusement. The guy was irrepressible. Here he was, surrounded by hostiles who had taken him by force, and as eager as a little kid to learn more about these so-called, invisible, spirit guides.

Frowning thoughtfully, Swift Eagle asked, "You do not know what you are - what the two of you are, do you?"

"Uh, we're best friends," Blair replied, looking confused as his glance flickered to Jim and then back to Swift Eagle.

"You are much more than that, young one. You are chosen ones, beloved of the Great Spirit, sent to watch over your people. Your friend," the old man told him as he lifted his chin toward Jim, "is the Watchman, the Sentinel. You are his companion, his Guide. You both hold great powers within you, and you travel together through time, each needing and safeguarding the other."

 _"Wow,"_ Blair blew out as he cut a quick look at Jim, and then grimaced at the skeptical look on his friend's face. "I've read about watchmen and sentinels, Jim - you **_know_** that!"

"Yeah, I know," Jim replied neutrally as he watched Swift Eagle warily. The old man was spooky.

Swift Eagle chuckled dryly, amused by the skepticism of one and the avid curiousity of the other; it was as it should be - the Watchman cautious, the Guide instinctively learning. "One day, if our peoples find peace together, and we all still live, I would speak with you again, and teach you about what you are. I would see you dance together around the fire, as it should be, united in all things." Looking toward the entrance to his tent, he shrugged philosophically. "But today is not that day." Turning back to them, he counseled, "Listen to your hearts and the dreams of the night - be guided by them, learn from them. Be strong, together."

Jim set down his empty bowl as Sandburg finished his meal, both of them silently thinking about Swift Eagle's words. The lawman stood and inclined his head toward the old man, this other 'sentinel' - who stood when they did - to formally acknowledge his courtesy. "I thank you for your welcome, the warmth of your shelter and the food. I am grateful you have looked after my…Guide. I hope the day will come when we can meet in peace without fear."

Swift Eagle inclined his head in respect as he replied formally, "You and Touch That Heals are welcome amongst our people. In honour to you, **_we_** will not harm the people **_you_** watch over."

Blair looked up at the old warrior and smiled softly. "Thank you for what you've taught us - I really hope we'll see you again someday."

Leading them out of the tent back toward Lobo, Swift Eagle called something to Deer Stalker, the man they'd met before - the same man who'd stopped the massacre at the farm two days before because he recognized the one who had shown him mercy.

"Deer Stalker is bringing you a pony and some supplies for your journey home. Just let him loose when you have no more need of him, and he will find his way back to us," Swift Eagle told Blair.

Jim handed Blair his coat and, after the younger man had gratefully pulled it on, the two white men mounted just as Whispering Waters appeared from another tent, bearing a long, warm, leather cape lined with soft fur, and a deerskin pouch. As he handed them up to Blair, Swift Eagle explained, "We wish to give you the robe as a gift, to keep you warm on your journey. Whispering Waters has also given you bundles of medicine. There is one for you, and one for your Sentinel, to protect you and make you strong. In the pouch, there are also some of the healing medicines he says you showed interest in last night."

"Thank you, Whispering Waters," Blair replied, very sincerely. He'd been fascinated to learn what herbs, as well as other natural substances gathered from the prairies and woodlands, the Indians used to treat infections and expedite healing.

"It is we who thank you, brother, for seeing past our differences to our common manhood," Swift Eagle replied with a formal inclination of his head. "You are brave and kind. We are grateful that you have helped our people."

Blair nodded and, when Jim turned Lobo away from the camp, Sandburg lifted his hand in peace - and was unaccountably moved when the warriors each lifted a hand solemnly toward him and inclined their heads in respect. Then he wheeled his horse away, to follow his best friend home.

* * *

They made good time, but still had to spend one night out in the bitter cold. Worried about Sandburg, knowing he was shivering badly and blue with chill, Jim drew them to a halt before sunset, once again finding shelter under the trees that grew along the river.

"Don't dismount yet," he called to Blair as he slid off Lobo. Swiftly pulling off his bedroll and saddlebags, as well as the bearskin, a small shovel he carried on a saddle ring, and the sack of food, Jim coaxed Lobo down to kneel in a drift of snow. Quickly, he dug a narrow trench in the drift, starting from his stallion's side, and then spread out his bedroll as a ground sheet. Draping the bearskin partially over Lobo's back, he made a kind of tent and then waved to Blair to join him.

"Get under there, out of the wind," Jim directed. "I'm just going to find some wood for a fire."

"I can help…" Sandburg protested through chattering teeth.

"No, you're freezing," Jim countered as he pushed Blair down under the bearskin, and then pulled the pony down to create another 'warm wall' for their improvised shelter.

Sniffing, Blair nodded stiffly as he pulled the deerskin cape closer around his body.

In less than half an hour, Jim had a good blaze going and had melted some water to make coffee. "Drink this," he ordered, as he sank down beside his friend and handed Blair the mug. And then he rummaged in the food sack, bringing out the meat and cheese.

Sandburg was still trembling with cold, but looked less like he was going to freeze solid any time soon.

"Thanks, Jim," he murmured as he gratefully inhaled the steam. Looking up from the mug, he added, "Not just for this, but for coming after me - it was probably an incredibly stupid thing to do, but I'm **_really_** glad you did."

Ellison shrugged and nodded, feeling his own weariness catch up with him. Between the fire, their coverings and the hot bodies of their mounts as well as their own, it was beginning to warm up inside the tiny shelter - enough to get ready for the night. "Once we've eaten, we need to take off our outer layers of clothing and pile everything up and around us, our clothes bundled under our heads."

Blair quirked a brow but nodded. Simple winter survival tactics that they'd both been taught in the Army - share body heat and get out of the outer clothes so they'd warm under their heads during the night. Smirking, he asked diffidently, "Does this mean we're engaged, big guy?" But his giggle ruined his intended mimicry of a timid and uncertain lover.

Jim batted him on the back of the head as he growled, "In your dreams, Doc. You're not my type." But he grinned as he said briskly a few minutes later, after they'd eaten cold meat, cheese and bread, "Now strip and roll up next to me."

"Ah, Jim, you say the sweetest things," Sandburg chortled, feeling just the least bit hysterical now that it was sinking in that he was safe, and the near-panic he'd felt for two days was finally easing away.

Despite darkness relieved only by the uncertain, flickering light of the fire, Ellison saw through the humour to the shadows that still haunted Sandburg's eyes. Quietly, firmly, he said, "You're okay. You're safe. I won't let **_anybody_** hurt you."

The brave attempt at wry humour flickered and died as Blair took a shuddering breath. Looking down and away, his voice very low, his tone ashamed, Blair admitted, "I was terrified, you know? When they burst into the farmhouse, I was sure we were all going to die. When they just took me, I was…relieved, I guess, that the Wilkinsons would be okay, but I didn't know what they wanted with me. I recognized Deer Stalker, and knew he was the reason I was still alive - he even gave me a cape, like this one, to keep me warm as we rode off. But - I thought they'd either kill me after they got what they wanted from me, or keep me as a slave - and I didn't know which fate would be worse, to tell you the truth." Cutting Jim a quick look, he said, "I tried to escape, once. But they caught me and held a knife to my throat - and then tied me to my horse. I kinda got the message that trying to get away would be a quick ticket to the other side." Sighing, he confessed dejectedly, "I'm not sure I could have survived alone, anyway, in this frozen wasteland."

All the while that he talked, Blair was pulling off the outer layers of his clothing as Jim did the same. Scooting closer, Blair climbed over Jim at the lawman's direction, to lie between Ellison and the horses, and then Jim laid close against him, wrapping long, strong arms around him. When he felt Sandburg shivering, small continuous trembles of cold, he pulled the younger man close and rubbed his back to generate friction and warmth.

"When we got to the camp, I realized what they wanted of me," Blair continued quietly as he curled gratefully against his rescuer. "I guess I could be considered guilty for aiding and abetting the enemy - but I couldn't **_not_** help them."

"I know, kid," Jim murmured, his head resting on Sandburg's damp curls. "Maybe we're showing them that not all white men are their enemy."

"I hope so," Sandburg sighed. "They're…decent people in their own way. Scared, I think, and very, very angry." He paused, thinking sadly of the kindnesses shown to him during his sojourn in the camp. "They're going to lose everything, aren't they, Jim?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid so, Chief," Jim murmured. "Our side has superior weaponry, and ultimately, superior numbers. They won't forget who they are and what they believe in, but they're going to lose their land and their freedom. It's just a matter of time."

Blair shook his head, feeling drowsy with the warmth surrounding him and the relief of being safe. "I feel sorry for them," he whispered sadly, knowing Jim could hear him. "Sorry for us, too - our side, I mean - because I think there's a lot we could have learned from them, if we'd listened and not just believed we knew better because we're 'civilized'." Sleepily, he asked then, "What did you think about that stuff about being brothers and having spirit guides…?"

"I've heard stranger things," Jim replied with a small smile. "Like the time I woke up wounded and some strange kid, claiming to be a doctor, started to tell me to imagine oil lanterns in my head…"

Blair snickered softly, but settled and soon Jim could tell from his soft breathing that he'd fallen asleep. Probably the first sleep he'd had since he'd been kidnapped, days before. "Rest well, little brother," he whispered with fondness, surprising himself with the depth of feeling he held for the man who had such absolute trust and faith in him.

But, despite his weariness, Jim had difficulty falling asleep. As his sensitive touch played over Blair's back, he could feel the scars left by the brutal whipping the younger man had endured about eighteen months before. Ellison felt rage sweep through him again, and was only calmed by the reality of holding Sandburg in his arms, close against his skin. He could feel the soft, warm puffs of air as Blair exhaled, and it soothed him. Swallowing, Jim drew Sandburg in closer, and felt Sandburg's body all along the length of his own, legs entwined, arms wrapped around one another. He could smell his best friend's scent, and he reached to tenderly stroke the familiar mane of curls, feeling their silkiness, like the purest of water rippling through his fingers.

Jim closed his eyes and just drank in the solid reality of Sandburg's presence, hearing his heartbeat, his breathing, feeling the warmth of his body and silently rejoicing that he was alive and whole. He'd been so frightened when Jake Wilkinson told him that the Indians had taken Blair - terrified of what they might have done to this man, now safe in his arms. Jim's heart clenched at how easily Blair might have been tortured and killed - and tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. Drawing in long slow breaths to calm himself, Ellison struggled with his emotions.

When Blair had been delayed at the Wilksinsons', Jim had been surprised to realize how much he missed the kid's company. But now, in the darkness, he had to admit to himself that despite his vow to never love again, to never be vulnerable again - he loved Blair. More than anything or anyone he had ever loved. More than he'd thought it possible to love. He would have died trying to get Sandburg out of that camp rather than leave him behind.

He couldn't understand himself, his own deep feelings for Sandburg. Ever since he'd left his childhood behind, he'd felt as if his heart had been locked away, sealed behind some wall, so that he couldn't feel that deeply. Hadn't ever wanted to feel that deeply, because it hurt too damned much when it inevitably went sour. But, somehow, Blair had found the key to unlock his heart's prison, and had snuck in without Jim even realizing Sandburg was there until he'd thought Blair might be lost to him forever.

 _'My brother,'_ he thought, but swallowed again, his throat and mouth suddenly desert-dry as he cradled Sandburg against his body, because against all the odds, he knew he cared more about Sandburg than he'd ever cared about his brother by birth. After all the years of isolation, of living his life alone without family, without friends, he now had a brother that meant the world to him. Wordless gratitude welled in Jim's heart and, with Blair safe in his arms, he was finally able to relax into sleep.

* * *

Blair woke gradually, a feeling of warmth and security his first awareness, and then sighed deeply, snuggling against the body of the one who held him. It had been so long since he'd felt the skin of another against his own, so very long since he'd been held with gentle care. For a while he drifted, thinking it must only be a dream, a sweet, wonderful dream, for even in this state of semi-sleep, he knew his life was a solitary one, bereft of such basic comfort. And he tried to stay in that place of warmth, feeling loved, even cherished. But as he tightened his arms around the one who held him, wanting to return the affection in kind, the solidity, the reality, of the experience woke him fully - and he remembered, with a start of comprehension, where he was and all that had happened.

Jim was still sleeping, his breathing deep and even, and Blair was loath to disturb his friend. So, for a while, though he felt almost guilty about it, he simply relaxed in Ellison's embrace, and thought again of how incredible it was that Jim had come for him. When he'd first seen Ellison at the camp, he'd thought he must have been dreaming, that it could not be possible. That Jim had followed him through the icy wasteland, tracked him down, knowing the dangers, the very real risk that he could be killed for his efforts, was earth-shaking. No one in Blair's experience had ever thought him so important, to risk such danger - hell, scarcely anyone had ever noticed he was even around, let alone when he was gone. But Jim hadn't been a mirage born of despair and fear - he'd been blessedly, solidly, **_real_**. Blair had almost lost it when Jim climbed down off Lobo and walked toward him, pulling him into a strong embrace. Dear God, the man was incredible. A rock. And Blair had held onto Ellison in those brief moments, drawing upon his strength and feeling - what? _Happiness_ \- so exquisite that it was beyond anything he'd experienced before.

And now, once again in Jim's embrace, safe, secure, warm - feeling the strength and surety of the man holding him - Blair realized for the first time that he honestly loved this man. Swift Eagle had called them brothers; somehow, against all the odds, he had a brother he could count on never to abandon him, always rely upon, and trust absolutely…

Perhaps it was only the strangeness of the experience, of the emotion, but Sandburg didn't feel even 'brother' covered what was in his heart. It was like Jim had become essential to him, like air. A part of his very being. Unexpected, and certainly unlooked for - but real and undeniable.

And that gave Blair pause.

He'd never felt such tenderness for, or such a need to comfort and protect, another man. Not that he felt such feelings were personally wrong. But Jim would be appalled, maybe even offended, that anyone thought he needed to be 'protected'. Ellison was fiercely independent and prided himself on his ability to take care of himself and anyone else who happened to need assistance. If Jim began to feel smothered - worse, if he felt Blair didn't somehow 'respect' him - he might well move on. And that, Sandburg realized, above all else, he could not risk. Jim needed him, needed his help with his senses - and Sandburg knew he personally needed this - this affirmation that he counted, that in his own way, Jim loved him, would risk all for him. Blair needed someone to love, in whatever way was possible. As a friend, a brother - if that was all he'd ever have in his life, so be it. He knew he cared for Jim deeply, was even devoted to him, would never betray him and would do all in his power to make Jim happy. He knew, from what he could see, and from what Ellison had told him, that Jim had been badly scarred by life. But now, so long as Jim let him, Ellison would have one safe place, one person in his world, who would do his best to make that world a good place to be.

So, while Jim slept, Blair allowed himself this rare and very human comfort of being held in a brother's arms, knowing it likely would never occur again. And when Jim woke, they'd pull apart, and Blair knew he'd make some joke to restore distance between them - to allow Ellison to put it behind them, never thinking about it again except as a night's necessity to survive the bitter cold, nothing more.

Nothing…personal.

* * *

They'd traveled for about two hours the next morning when they were quickly overtaken by a Cavalry troop. Jim reined in, and muttered quickly to Blair, "Let me do the talking - I know the turkey leading these guys, and most of the rest of them, too."

Blair hunched into his cape and tried to look inconspicuous while at the same time being avidly interested in the men approaching - suspecting, correctly, that the 'turkey' was Rutherford, the guy Jim had argued with over the order to massacre the Indians at Poplar Flats.

"Major Rutherford," Ellison acknowledged stiffly.

"Ellison," the Major nodded back, equally stiffly. "I didn't expect to find you out here…"

Jim shrugged. "I wasn't looking for you, either," he replied dryly. "Did you want something?" he continued, referring to the fact that the troop had shifted direction to approach them.

"We're looking for a renegade band of Indians," Rutherford replied, his eyes shifting to Sandburg. "That looks like an Indian pony."

"It is," Jim answered easily. "This is my friend, Dr. Blair Sandburg, from Bitterwood Creek. He was captured by a war party a few days ago. He got away, as you can see, by stealing one of their horses."

"Really?" Rutherford murmured, his eyes narrowing as he considered the small, not very impressive man, who didn't look capable of successfully sneaking away from a band of cutthroat savages. "Where's the camp?"

Before Blair could answer with more than a shrug, Jim had jumped back into the conversation. "We're not sure. Sandburg wandered around in circles for a bit before I finally happened across his trail." Casting an apologetic look at his friend, Jim added, "He's not much of an outdoorsman. Tends to get turned around when everything in every direction looks the same."

"I see," Rutherford drawled, not sure he believed much, if any, of the story. Ellison had unfortunate tendencies toward sympathizing with the savages. "I hope that's all the gospel truth - I'd hate to have to charge you with treason for aiding and abetting the enemy."

Jim turned cold eyes on his erstwhile commander. "You'd have trouble trying to portray Sandburg as a less than loyal and brave American," he replied, his voice low and dangerous, yet loud enough to be heard by the whole troop. "You and every man here have probably heard of him - Doc? From Masonville?"

Blair's eyes dropped away in embarrassment as the full troop of men looked at him with surprise and then with something akin to awe. This bedraggled kid was the legendary 'Doc'? But, they knew Ellison wouldn't make up something like that. Rutherford, in particular, looked disconcerted. "I'm sorry, Dr. Sandburg, if my remarks caused any offence," he hastened to say.

Blair just lifted his chin to look at the man as coldly as was Ellison, having this one chance to convey some of the absolute loathing he felt for this man. "No problem," he replied tightly, though he spoke too quietly for the soldiers to hear. "I just consider the source…"

The Major stiffened at the insult as his gaze flashed from Sandburg to Ellison, realizing the younger man knew about their history. Sniffing, grudgingly appreciating the strategic delicacy of keeping the insult private, thereby prohibiting any response without raising the curiousity of the troop behind him, he nodded tightly. Without another word to them, he lifted his arm, calling out to his men to follow as he rode away, backtracking Ellison and Sandburg's trail through the snow.

"Will he find the camp?" Blair whispered uncertainly. "If he follows our trail, he'll know we were lying…"

But Jim shook his head, unconcerned. "It snowed last night, Chief. He hasn't a hope in hell of finding our tracks today," Jim replied. "He's as much of a city-slicker as you are, only he doesn't have the sense to ask for the help of his subordinates when he needs it, and won't take it when it's offered. Come on - let's get home. It's only another hour or so…"

When they finally rode into town, cold and weary, they were frankly surprised by the joyous response of the townsfolk who hastily gathered around them, Simon in the lead. Some shuffled them quickly indoors to warm up while others cared for their mounts. Apparently, everyone in Bitterwood Creek had been certain they'd lost their doctor and their Sheriff to the Indians - and had had time to realize how much that loss meant to their safety and wellbeing. Even those who still regarded the two men as not only different but dangerous, now looked upon them with new respect. And many, like Simon, had sincerely mourned the certain deaths of men who had become their friends, and now were exuberantly joyful to see their safe return.

* * *

Later, once they were again alone but for Simon's company, Jim confided some of the details of their adventure with the older man, while Blair pulled the small bundles out of the deerskin bag.

"Jim, look at this," he interjected suddenly, a note of wonder in his voice. In his hands were two beautiful hand-cured, snow-white skin bags, one tied with thin rawhide from which hung a tiny delicate carving of a wolf. The other carried a small but perfect black jaguar talisman.

Ellison took the medicine bag Blair held out to him and studied it thoughtfully for a long moment before slipping it into the pocket of his shirt. When Blair grinned at him, Jim shrugged, as he teased, "Can't hurt to keep it handy - 'watching out' for you, with all the trouble you manage to find, I need all the luck I can get."

The two friends laughed together, but Simon looked from them to the pouch in Sandburg's hand and wondered at the significance of the small fetishes. And he wondered even more why the Indians had given them each a gift of sacred medicine bags. Banks had been in the west long enough to know such tribute was unusual at the best of times, let alone when they were at war. There was something about these two that he'd long sensed, a kind of energy within both of them that seemed to almost to crackle when they were in close proximity to one another. Both aggressively private about their pasts, both essentially loners for all of Sandburg's innate charm, they had bonded almost immediately, their friendship only growing over time. They were special, somehow, unique, but it also seemed that they belonged together - like brothers who had only just met. Reminded him, somehow, of stories he'd heard long ago, around the fires outside the slaves' quarters, when he'd been a kid back in South Carolina…something about warriors and friendship…but he couldn't quite recall the details.

Apparently, the Indians had sensed something different about the two of them, too…and honoured it.

* * *

When his first Christmas in Bitterwood Creek rolled around, Blair realized he had some choices to make about how much he wanted to fit in, as opposed to the fact that the holiday was not one his Faith celebrated - though, growing up as he had, he wasn't particularly orthodox by any stretch of the imagination. The businesses along the street, with two notable exceptions, had some kind of decoration in their windows, often made by the school children, and all had a tree, bedecked with strung popcorn and ribbons, candles (which Sandburg considered a very dangerous practice) and various, mostly homemade, hand-carved ornaments. He'd found a box in the storeroom that contained old Doc Wilcox's ornaments, many of which looked liked they'd been donated by patients, so he knew folks expected to see a tree at the Doctor's Office.

It wouldn't kill him to put up a tree in the office, so the patients would feel the familiar comfort of it. There was a stand of pine not too far away, along the river. Maybe Jim would like to help pick one out and decorate it. He hadn't gotten one for the Sheriff's Office next door yet, so maybe they could help with each other's trees.

Which made him think of Jim. His best friend didn't appear to be particularly religious - he sure didn't spend any time at the church - and Christmas was a family affair. Still, it was a time of gift-giving to friends as well as family. Should he give Jim a gift? Or would the older man feel it presumptuous or, maybe, even embarrassing if he hadn't gotten one for Blair? And, why would he? He knew Sandburg was Jewish and didn't celebrate Christmas. Blair shook his head and sighed about the social complexities of life in a small town when a person was 'different'.

He was still trying to decide what to do when a group of school children stopped by his office one wintry day in mid-December, to personally deliver a handmade invitation to the Christmas Pageant at the schoolhouse later in the week. The kids were dropping them off at all of the businesses and, according to the earnest spokesperson - a little girl who handed the one she'd laboriously printed to him - _everybody_ in town _always_ came. She was only about seven years old, and Blair figured she didn't really understand why he never showed up at church; but in her innocence, she was giving him a pretty clear message that he'd _definitely_ be missed if he didn't show up at the schoolhouse. And then one of the other children asked him why the tree wasn't up yet. Had he been too busy with sick folks to have time to get one yet? He allowed that, yes, he'd been pretty busy, which the little ones all clearly thought was a shame, and they wondered, generously, if they could help him, maybe get one of their daddies to cut down a tree for him. He smiled and thanked them, but assured them he could manage, and they went on their merry way.

Swallowing, he went to the storeroom next to the office and pulled out the old box from a lower shelf. He was going through the decorations when Jim blew into the hall, brushing snow from his coat and looking flushed with cold as he poked his head around the office door. When he saw what were obviously Christmas decorations on Blair's desk and on the floor around the box as Blair made his inventory, Ellison quirked a brow.

"What are you doing?" he asked curiously.

"Well, it's been suggested that it's past time that I got the tree up," Blair replied, his normally vibrant voice lacking any animation.

"But…why would you put a Christmas tree?" Jim asked with a frown of confusion. "You're Jewish."

"Yes, I know," Sandburg sighed, as he sat back in his chair to look up at Jim. "But everyone else in town is Christian, and this is one of their, well, _your_ , two most significant traditional celebrations in the year." He picked up the invitation to the Christmas pageant at the school, and handed it to Jim. "I suppose you got one of these today, too." When Jim shrugged and nodded, Blair continued, "The little kids who came by with mine don't understand the differences in cultural traditions - they probably just think I'm like the Sheriff, and not particularly _'God-fearin''_ when I don't show up at church every Sunday. But Christmas is very special, and if I don't show up for this school activity, that 'everyone in town attends', or so I was told very strictly," he informed Jim with a quick, small smile, to show he'd taken no offence, though it faded as he continued, "and to the special services at the Church, which, by the way, I'm assuming you'll be attending since the Sheriff _has_ to be seen at something as special as that - well, then they'll wonder why. And then they'll remember that the Jews crucified their Christ - and, some of them, anyway, might start to be afraid of me. Just because. I don't want the kids to be afraid of me, Jim. I can handle the Urseline Tuckers of this world, but the kids…"

He sighed and shook his head as he idly touched some of the ornaments on his desk. "You need a tree for your office, too," he said then, wearily. "We're the only two businesses on the street that haven't put up any Christmas decorations, and it's very noticeable."

"This is really bothering you, isn't it, Chief?" Jim asked quietly.

Shrugging, Blair shook his head a little helplessly. "I can't win, either way. If I don't put up a tree, and don't go to the children's pageant and the church services, then I'm too distinctly different. If I do, there will be many in this town who will label me a hypocrite." Biting his lip, he continued thinking aloud, "Jesus is considered a prophet in the Jewish faith, an important one, so I don't find it offensive to acknowledge his birth and I'm quite willing to show respect for the faith of my patients. But it wasn't a holiday that Mom paid any attention to, unless we were living with Christians at the time, and then she'd tell them they didn't have to give us gifts, because we were Jewish. So, Christmas morning was always pretty awkward, with other people exchanging presents and Mom and I just sitting there, neither giving nor receiving. I hated not giving, and when I was little I couldn't understand why I didn't deserve presents like the other kids. It just all seems so complicated, when it shouldn't be."

Jim felt his chest tighten at the thought of the little kid who had sat empty-handed and wondering why Santa Claus didn't seem to like him much, especially when he remembered the embarrassing abundance of gifts he'd known each year of his own childhood. Clearing his throat when Blair's voice trailed off, as his friend worked out what he was going to do, Jim asked, "Why did you hate, 'not giving'?"

"Huh? Oh, well, I don't know. I guess that it always seemed to me that regardless of whether we were Jewish, it wouldn't hurt to, once a year, show people they were important to us and we cared about them," he replied. "Whether I celebrate Christmas or not for the strictly religious reasons, I do think it's an important opportunity to celebrate love, family and…" he hesitated, realizing he was getting into possibly personal territory, "friendship."

Jim's lips compressed as he looked away, thinking about that. Christmas had always been a formal celebration during his years in service, but he tended not to give gifts, and hadn't received them, either. But then, he hadn't had a best friend before, someone who was as close as a brother. Should he be getting Blair a gift?

As if reading his mind, Blair said quietly, "Don't worry, I'm not angling for a Christmas present."

Jim quirked a brow, but he was thinking about the little kid who'd never gotten any. Sighing, he asked, "So, what do you want to do about the formal traditions?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to go to get your tree, when I go to get mine," Blair replied with a resigned smile. "I could help you decorate yours, if you'll help me decorate mine."

"And the pageant and church services?" Jim asked.

"I'll go along with you, as a gesture of respect to people who are important to me," Sandburg answered. "I can live with that."

"What about your own religious holidays, Chief?" Jim asked then, realizing that in the months he'd lived with Sandburg, he'd never been conscious of Blair's cultural or religious differences. The subject just hadn't come up, and he had no idea of what holidays, except maybe Passover, that Blair might want to celebrate.

"Mom didn't celebrate those, either," Blair replied wryly. "I've got a small menorah that I light for Chanukah, that's the Jewish holiday that coincides with Christmas, more in respect for my forefathers than because I'm a practicing Jew."

With a slight smile of complicity, Jim offered, "Tell you what, let's go get our trees and get them decorated, though to be honest, I think it's a lot of hoopla, and if you'll back me up at the public events, I'd like to hear about your traditions, and maybe I could be there when you light the…menorah. If you can respect my traditional culture, I can respect yours."

"You don't have to…" Blair exclaimed, surprised and beginning to feel guilty that he might have made Jim feel uncomfortable.

Jim's smile widened as he stood and said, "I know, but I want to. Come on, let's go murder us a couple of innocent trees."

Laughing, feeling unaccountably lighter in spirit, Blair stood to get his coat.

But he still wasn't sure about whether or not to get Jim a Christmas present. And, if he did, what it would be? Jim was a humble man, who never seemed to want much of anything…

Late the next afternoon, December 8, 1866, the sun already set as the year drew close to the shortest 'day' of the year on the winter solstice, Blair was waiting for Jim when the lawman returned from his early rounds of the town. Office hours were over, the last patient having left about a half hour before. Sandburg smiled to himself at how happy the little McCready child had been to see the decorated tree. Apparently, his trouble in finding time to get a tree had been talked about in the schoolyard that morning. In a small town, everybody knew everyone else's business. It was disconcerting, but also comforting in a way, to know the kids were worried about whether he had time to celebrate and enjoy the holiday.

Sandburg heard Jim stomping the snow from his boots outside their front door and came out of the kitchen to the hall as Ellison entered and hung up his coat. Jim shivered a little and rubbed his hands together as he blew on them, glad to be inside. It was going to be a bitter night. When he noticed that Blair was looking a little nervous, shifting in place and his eyes not quite making contact, he asked, "Something wrong, Chief?"

"No, not wrong," Blair replied. "But, uh, you said you might be interested in standing with me when I light the Menorah…and, well, tonight is the first night of Chanukah, so I waited, in case…"

"Sure, thanks, I'm glad you waited," Jim hastened to assure his friend. "Uh, what do we do?"

Sandburg waved his hand toward the stairs. "I've got the menorah in my room…"

Together, they climbed the dark staircase and then along the short upper hall to the front bed-sitting room. It was the first time that Jim had been in his friend's room, and he looked around with interest. The double bed was a simple cannonball style with four posts and a headboard crafted from dark pine. It was covered with layers of blankets and a quilt that made Jim grin secretly at how hard Sandburg worked to stay warm at this time of year. There was a comfortable chair and a small table with an oil lamp, an old armoire and a small chest of drawers, also made of pine. On the top of the low piece of furniture, was a simple, beautifully crafted, candelabra of eight candles of even length and a taller, ninth, candle in the center. It was beautiful, quietly elegant.

"You were going to tell me what this tradition is about, Chief," Jim reminded his friend.

Nodding, Blair replied, "Well, as I said, I respect this tradition in memory of my ancestors. In the second century, BC, the Greeks and Syrians, under the leadership of Antiochus, were a strong force in Judea, and the Jewish people were slowing becoming Hellenized - forgetting their own history and culture. In fact, certain aspects of tradition were actually outlawed, including the practice of Brit Mila, and I'll explain that in a minute, and the study of the Torah, which was given to Moses…but that's another story. In response, a band of Jewish settlers took to the hills of Judea in open revolt against this threat to Jewish life, led by Matitiyahu, and later his son Judah the Maccabee, also called "The Hammer", for his warrior prowess. This small band of pious Jews led guerrilla warfare against the Syrian army."

"That's a long time ago, Blair," Jim observed, never having heard any of this history before.

"Two thousand years," Sandburg murmured. "Anyway, Antiochus sent **_thousands_** of well-armed troops to crush the rebellion - but that small band of Maccabees succeeded in driving the foreigners from their land. The victorious Jewish fighters entered Jerusalem in December, 164 BCE. The Holy Temple was in shambles, defiled and desecrated by the foreign soldiers. They cleansed the Temple and re-dedicated it on the 25th day of the Jewish month of Kislev. When it came time to re-light the Menorah, they searched the entire Temple, but only one small jar of oil bearing the pure seal of the High Priest could be found \- only enough to last for one day…and it would take seven more days to ritually prepare more oil for such a holy purpose. Miraculously, that single, small jar of oil burned for **_eight_** days, until a new supply of oil was could be brought to keep the Menorah lit.

"You see, Jim, the number 'eight,' has a special significance to the Jewish people," Blair explained quietly. "In our traditional beliefs, as in yours, the world was created in seven days. There are seven notes in the musical scale, seven days of the week. Therefore, the number seven represents the physical world that we can touch and smell and feel. The number eight, on the other hand, transcends the natural world and represents our spirituality and connection with God. That's why the miraculous days of Chanukah are 'eight'. Though eight emanates from beyond our senses, our souls can still reach out and be touched by its force...

"The Greeks had a particular dislike of the Jewish practice of Brit Mila, the circumcision of a baby boy on the eighth day after his birth. They outlawed the practice of Brit Mila because, to them, every 'body' was another piece of art. To the Greeks, circumcision was mutilation of a masterpiece - but to the Jew, Brit Mila is one of the most essential expressions of Jewish identity. A human being can only achieve its greatest beauty if affected by a relationship with God. Circumcision of the perfectly sculpted human recognizes and embraces the reality of his transcendent soul."

He paused for a moment as he pulled a box of matches from the top drawer of the bureau. Continuing, he said quietly, "From then on, Jews all over the world have observed a holiday for eight days in honor of this historic victory and the miracle of the oil. 'Chanukah' means 'dedication' and during these eight days, we light one candle each night, using the candle in the center, to remember those who fought to safeguard our heritage, who won our freedom to worship…and to remember that miracles happen."

With that, he struck a match and lit the slender center taper, then held the taper to light the first candle of Chanukah and, finally, he blew out the first, 'helper', candle, before carefully setting it back in its center holder.

They stood a moment in silence as the small flame flickered in the darkness, lighting the room with a gentle glow, as both thought about what a small group of people with a powerful conviction can achieve - and about the fact that miracles do happen.

"Thank you, Jim," Blair said softly. "For wanting to share this with me."

Ellison lifted a hand to squeeze his best friend's shoulder and, a moment later, they went downstairs to make their dinner.

* * *

When the two men followed the rest of the citizens to the schoolhouse a few nights later, Jim picked up a number of whispered comments from some who were vastly surprised, and not charitable about it, about Sandburg's presence. Some were discreet, and he didn't think Blair heard them, but some, like Urseline Tucker, didn't know the meaning of the word. When Blair stiffened beside him, and blushed faintly at the venomous comments, Jim ground his teeth in anger. This wasn't the place to make any kind of scene, what with the kids so excited and happy, but Ellison began to realize how hard it could be, sometimes, to be 'different'; and he ached that his best friend had to put up with such crap. Because Blair didn't get mad - the younger man just felt sad about it all, and it hurt him to feel ostracized, especially when he was doing his best to show respect to the beliefs of others.

It wasn't any better at the church on Christmas Eve.

"And she calls herself a 'good Christian'," Jim seethed as they made their way home after the service, still furious about Urseline's loud exclamation that she **_certainly_** hadn't expected to see **_Doctor Sandburg_** there that evening. Why, it didn't seem…well, **_right_**. After all, it had been **_his_** people who… Blessedly, the preacher had stepped in to cut her off and welcome Blair to the service, and to thank him for his respect in attending. But the damage had been done. Everyone in the church had craned their heads, and the children had begun to ask questions about what the fuss was about. No doubt, all the little Tuckers would be only too pleased to explain it all to their friends. Blair had been right - it was a situation that he just couldn't win.

"It's not important," Blair sighed as he led the way into their home.

"It damned well **_is_** important," Jim snapped as he hung his hat up on the peg and shrugged out of his coat. "I'm sorry, really sorry, you have to put up with such ignorant drivel. You're expected to respect their faith, but who respects yours?"

"It's your faith, too, Jim - and you do, my friend," Blair replied with a smile. "And I thank you for that," he continued as he thought about Jim standing with him as he'd lit the candles each evening.

"My faith? Officially, maybe," Jim grunted as he led the way into the kitchen.

Surprised, Blair asked as he followed, "What? You don't believe in Jesus? As a minimum, he was a historical personage of profound influence and a great teacher. Or - don't you believe in God?"

Jim put on the kettle to boil for some of Sandburg's tea, to warm them up from the chilly walk home. Sighing, he shook his head. Turning to Sandburg, he said with all sincerity, "The War pretty much convinced me there is no God, Chief, and Poplar Flats just drove home the lesson. Surely, with what you endured, what you saw, you don't believe in the idea, either."

Pulling down the mugs, Blair replied, "Actually, I do." Seeing the surprise on Jim's face, he went on to explain, "Oh, not the fire and brimstone God, or even the gentle Heavenly Father - but I do believe in an intelligent, even compassionate Creator. I know Darwin's theories of evolution are all the rage, and as a scientist, maybe I should be persuaded by them. But - have you ever really looked at the stars, Jim, and thought about the sheer immensity of this universe? Have you ever thought about the miracle of creating a baby…how complex and amazing that is? I've studied our bodies in great depth and I have to tell you, I find creation, of all life, so diverse and amazing, so intricate and yet purposeful. I can't believe it's all just accidental and happenstance. It's too - deliberate. Too - miraculous. And wonderful, I guess."

Jim shrugged as he leaned against the table, crossing his arms as he asked, "If it's all so purposeful, then why do we have such evil as war? I'll grant you the Devil exists, but God?"

Pulling out the teapot and bags, Blair replied thoughtfully, "Because I think we **_do_** have free will. If we didn't, then we'd just be puppets to God's will - and that seems rather pointless. Men start wars and massacre people, not God. I think we **_do_** have souls, Jim - and that our souls have lessons to learn through life, choices to make. It's about ethics and principles, behaving with integrity and decency. But, most of all, I think it's about the lessons that Jesus taught, actually. About learning that love is the most powerful force in the world, and that if we just learned to be merciful, to love one another, to accept and be respectful, to want to give more than we receive - lay down our lives for a friend - then this world really would be a wondrous place."

"You're pretty good at quoting a Saviour you don't believe in," Jim observed wryly, and with no little surprise. Hell, the kid sounded like a whole lot better Christian than that bitch, Urseline Tucker.

"I don't disbelieve in him, Him," Sandburg sighed as he poured out the boiling water to heat the pot, emptied it into the dishpan and then filled the pot. "He was a great teacher and a very wise man, a prophet. He may even have been the Son of God \- in some fundamental ways, we all are. But I've read about a lot of different cultures and beliefs, and they all have pretty much the same core principles in common. In part, because they create social norms that permit cohesion and some basic security and decency of living in communities - but also, in part, I think, because the divine force of the universe really wants us to get some basic messages and so He, She, It sends us teachers to show us the path."

Pouring out the tea, he carried the mugs to the table where they both pulled out chairs to sit down. "I guess the bottom line for me," Blair continued as he blew on the hot beverage to cool it, "is that I just don't think it's all random. I think there is some purpose, some reason we are born and given the talents, the opportunities, the challenges and trials, like the War, that both test us, so we will learn, and to give us a chance to contribute, to make things better than they are."

"So, it's all some big game. Pass the test and go straight to Heaven," Ellison argued disparagingly.

"You really are determined to be cynical about this, aren't you?" Sandburg teased with a smile, taking no offence at Jim's very blatant skepticism about the matter of his personal beliefs. Everyone had to choose for themselves what they believed, what helped them to make sense of their world. "But, no, I don't think it's a game. I also don't think we all become angels and play harps on the far side of the clouds. I believe that our souls are immortal - that they are the essential energy behind the life force - and that we likely come back, again and again, either here or on other worlds…"

"You believe there's life on other worlds?" Jim interjected, enjoying the discussion. This wasn't stuff he'd spent a whole lot of time thinking about, but he found Blair's views interesting.

"Well, **_obviously_** ," Blair exclaimed. "I know it's not accepted belief, by almost any religion, but think about it! The universe is HUGE! What's the point of it? To make our sky all nice and sparkly? No, no, no. Of course, there's life elsewhere. Both the scientific theory of evolution, and the religious theory of a divine creator, pretty much require that there be other life. If it could evolve here, it could evolve on other planets - there must be trillions and trillions of them! And if God is the creator, why only create life here or if only here, why create all that other stuff out there?"

Jim grinned, tickled to see his best friend so excited, his eyes sparkling as he got right into his argument over something as conjectural, and pretty much inconsequential, as life on other worlds.

"What?" Blair asked, seeing the grin and the laughter in Jim's eyes. "You think I'm nuts, don't you?"

"No, not at all," Jim contested, shaking his head. "I think you're brilliant, to tell you the truth. But, I also get a kick out of the things you think about - who cares if there's life on other planets? Let alone, substantiate the argument from two completely different philosophical perspectives?"

Blair grinned and shook his head. "I care, I guess." But then he sobered, "Probably because I need to think there can be some good that can come out of the terrible things that people have to endure. I've noticed that folks don't learn, don't grow, without pain - and that strikes me as sad, if there's no purpose to it all. But, if I can imagine a soul that is struggling to learn, and then comes back to teach others in another life, well, then, that makes sense to me. And, I just don't think something as wondrous as this world, and all the richness in it, was an accident of biology in some lake or ocean. I need to believe something more than that nothing really matters. And if I'm wrong, well, there's no harm done. I try to live my life according to ethical and compassionate principles that maybe, somehow, help to create a better community, or even just make one other life better. At least I'll have made a difference for the good, while I used up air and space."

Jim looked down at the tea steaming in his mug as he nodded. "You're a good man, Chief," he said quietly. Looking up at Blair, he added, "You're a very good man. And this world is lucky to have men like you in it."

Touched, Blair bobbed his head in embarrassment. Lifting his gaze, he said softly, "Thank you. But, I figure, it takes one to know one."

* * *

Christmas morning dawned clear and crisp, with frost glittering on the buildings and trees. Jim got up early to make them a hearty breakfast, and smiled at Blair cheerfully as he handed him a mug of fresh-perked coffee. Grinning back, Blair chirped, "Merry Christmas, Jim!"

"Merry Christmas to you, Chief," his friend returned. "And, speaking of which," Jim added as he pointed under the kitchen table to a meticulously-wrapped box, "in the tradition of giving gifts to good friends, I wanted you to have that."

Blair looked at the box, so carefully wrapped, and he felt a lump in his throat. It was the first Christmas gift that anyone had ever given to him. "You didn't have to do this," he murmured, his voice a little unsteady. "I told you…I wasn't hinting…"

"Just accept the gift, Blair, because I wanted to give it to you, okay?" Jim replied with a soft smile, pleased that Sandburg seemed so touched. It was about time he got a gift on Christmas - God knew, he was a damned good friend who deserved to know he was appreciated.

Blair set his mug down on the table and then bent to pull the gift out from underneath. Though it was a good size, it was light, and he couldn't begin to imagine what was in it. But he didn't really care. What was important was that it was from Jim. Sitting down with it in front of him on the table, he just gazed at it for the longest time with a delighted smile on his face, as if the wrapped box was the present. Finally, looking up at Jim, he said quietly, but with happiness sparkling in his eyes, "Thanks. I really appreciate this."

"You're supposed to open it first," Jim teased. "You might not like it. It's something you don't have, and maybe that's because you don't really want one."

Blair blinked and swallowed, sniffed a little as he said, "I don't have to open it to be grateful." But then he grinned like a little kid as he said, "But I will!" And then he was ripping into the paper to find a box, and he eagerly opened the box to find a black Stetson. Sandburg's mouth dropped open as he pulled it out and immediately put it on his head. He'd been looking at Stetsons in the General Store ever since he'd arrived in Bitterwood Creek, but they were expensive, and he didn't have a lot of cash; with few exceptions, his patients tended to pay him in kind. Looking up at Jim, he beamed. "How does it look?"

"Like you were born with it on," Jim smiled back approvingly. "It's you, Chief. Really you."

"Ah, I really like it, Jim," he burbled. "I've been wanting one but, well…"

"I just thought that you needed one out here," Ellison explained. "The winters are too damned cold to go around bareheaded, and you'll get sunstroke in the summer. It's not like back east."

"I know - thanks, Jim," he replied sincerely as he took it off and fingered the brim. "This was really thoughtful. "This was _truly_ thoughtful…and I don't know how you could have known, but it's about the only thing I _really_ wanted to buy sometime, that I didn't already have." Setting the hat down, he reached into his pocket and drew out a carefully wrapped package about five inches by four inches by two inches. "I got you something, too," he said shyly, as he offered the gift to Jim. "You already have one, but when I saw this, I just thought it seemed right, somehow. And, well, I figured you could use a new one."

Taking the package, knowing the symbolic meaning that Blair put into Christmas giving, Jim knew the kid would have put a lot of thought into whatever it was. And he was touched. He hadn't been given many gifts since he'd left home a very great many years ago. "Thanks, Chief," he said sincerely.

"You're supposed to open it first," Blair said with a perfectly straight face, while also perfectly mimicking Jim's earlier tones with twinkling eyes.

Jim snorted but he grinned as he began to open the package. Inside was a box, and inside the box was a beautifully designed buckle, crafted in the form of a leaping black cat. "Whoa," he murmured. Blair was right; his old buckle had worn pretty thin and was rusting - probably not even safe to be wearing anymore. Trust a doctor to notice that. But it was so much more than a utilitarian gift. Great care had gone into its making, great artistry. And, oddly, as Blair had said, 'it seemed right, somehow'.

"You like it?" Sandburg asked, uncertain. "If you don't, there were other designs…we could exchange it."

"No, I…this is great!" Jim replied, looking vastly pleased. "But - what made you choose a black cat?"

Shrugging, Blair replied, "Well, for a start, you can see in the dark. And you can hear sounds most human beings can't. You can move as silently as a cat, and when you're stalking someone, it's almost feline, man. And, well, your hat, slicker, duster are all black and so's your leather winter jacket. You have a great sense of smell, and can be as persnickety about what you eat as a cat is - and, well, " he said as he looked down and away, "when I was reading about that guy Burton's work, that I first told you about? The one who wrote about sentinels? Well, he said the local symbol for sentinels was a jaguar. Most of all, I remembered Swift Eagle said your spirit guide is a black jaguar…so, I just thought it made sense. No one else will ever figure it out, but - it's you, Jim."

Jim felt a lump in his throat at how very meaningful the gift was, how it had been selected with such great thought and care \- and wasn't inexpensive, but Blair had somehow scrounged together what little he had to get something he knew was so appropriate. "It's perfect, Blair, thank you," he said, his voice a little hoarse with emotion.

Sandburg's face lit up, brighter than when he'd received his own gift, and Jim knew that his best friend truly did get the double joy of Christmas, what it was really all about. The joy of knowing someone cared for you, and the joy of the generous person, who is happiest when they've made someone else happy.

His friend truly was a very good man.

And Jim felt pretty good, too, when Blair again fingered his new hat with a sweet smile of genuine pleasure, and couldn't resist putting it back on his head. He was glowing, just like a little kid who woke up amazed to find that Santa had brought what he'd secretly most wanted on Christmas morn.

* * *

Winter dragged on until Blair, at least, was beginning to despair that it would never end; but end it did, with warm damp winds that drove storms of pelting rain across the prairie, melting the snow and turning the rolling plains into a massive, muddy morass. By the time the rain finally stopped, the main street of Bitterwood Creek was deep with sucking, sloppy muck. Blair's assumption about the utility of the raised boardwalks the summer before was proven true as the townsfolk, tired of being shut inside, came out to enjoy the warm sunshine as they paraded along the walks, gossiping, while children laughed and played underfoot.

The town continued to thrive as more people settled in the area, bringing new business and offering more services - a ladies' millinery shop opened in time for Easter, rivaling the General Store's offering of beguiling hats, colourful dress materials and geegaws, like buttons and lace or ribbon for trim. Henri expanded his blacksmith and livery business to include a saddlery next door, employing a man who made leatherwork a fine art. A small apothecary opened up, relieving Sandburg of the chore of mixing all his own medicines, and the new shop offered an amazing array of sweets for the children, and attractive little boxes of handmade chocolates a man could give to his sweetheart, as well as introduced the first soda fountain to Bitterwood Creek.

Johnny Winston decided that he could afford to buy one of the little boxes wrapped in pink ribbon to take to his girl one fine Saturday morning. He was whistling happily as he set off with the romantic token from the apothecary shop and along the broad street to the residential end of town, anticipating her delight at the surprise.

* * *

"Sheriff! You better come quick!" Johnny Winston gasped after banging loudly on the office door and pushing it open so hard it flung back against the wall. White as a ghost, his eyes glazed with as yet unshed tears, he choked out, "It's Nellie… ** _she's been murdered!"_**

Jim stood from behind his desk, where he'd been doing his Saturday morning reports on Friday night's arrests, and reached for his hat, a stab of sorrow lancing through him at hearing the news. Nellie never said much, but she'd been sweet and capable, always ready to lend a helping hand. "What happened? Where is she?"

"In her place behind the schoolroom," Johnny gulped, pale as parchment and looking slightly green. "Her nightdress was pushed…" but he couldn't bring himself to describe all he'd seen, and he gagged.

"Go next door and ask Doc to meet me over there," Ellison directed as he laid a steadying hand on the earnest young man's shoulders. Everyone in town knew Johnny had been courting Nellie, their mutual interest in books giving them common ground. "I'm sorry, Johnny. Real sorry."

Winston bit his lip, almost undone by the sympathy as he swallowed convulsively, trying to get himself under control. With a bleak nod, he left to find the doctor.

Jim loped off toward the schoolhouse and had just begun to examine the scene of the crime when Blair rapped smartly on the door and then entered the small living quarters. When Sandburg saw Nellie sprawled in front of the tiny stone fireplace, her woolen nightgown askew and shoved up over her hips, blood on her thighs, and the ugly bruising on her unnaturally twisted neck, he looked away briefly and closed his eyes. It wasn't that he hadn't seen worse, and death was no stranger, but Nellie had been the first one to welcome Blair to Bitterwood Creek, claiming he was the answer to their prayers. He'd never forgotten that, or her help those first few days. He'd liked the young woman a great deal and had respected her. It was hard to see her dead, let alone abused and murdered, so that she'd died terrified and in pain.

"You okay?" Ellison asked quietly.

"No," Blair replied, his voice low, and tight. "She was a good person. I'll miss her." But he took a deep, steadying breath, opened his eyes and turned back to Jim. He couldn't help her and she was beyond any more pain. Now, all he could do was focus on helping Jim determine who had hurt her so badly and then killed her. "You don't think Johnny did this, do you?"

"No," Ellison replied. "It's always possible, I guess - but we both know that this doesn't seem to be in Johnny's nature. They were going to be married in another month or so - she might have been saving herself for her wedding night, but I can't picture her fighting him so hard if he wanted to jump the gun." His gaze tracked over the evidence around the room that mutely testified that Nellie hadn't died easily.

"You picking up anything?" Sandburg asked then, and Jim knew the kid was referring to his senses.

Jim shook his head as he bit his lip. "Lots of confusing smells here, Sandburg," he muttered.

"Okay, let's try filtering out some of the expected ones, like blood and the smell of death and the fire," Blair replied in his low compelling voice, as he moved around the body to put his hand on Jim's back. "Close your eyes and just concentrate, labeling each scent you recognize until you find ones that don't belong in here."

Blowing out a breath, Ellison nodded and focused his concentration upon the scents in the room. He grimaced as he 'turned up the flame' on the blue lantern in his head. It took him a few minutes, and he was glad of Sandburg's quiet murmurs of encouragement that kept him from losing himself in the odours swirling around him. Finally, he opened his eyes and nodded. "I smell heavy perspiration, the semen, bear grease, and something else - liquor and some kind of fur…not sure which animal."

"Good, that's good," Sandburg replied approvingly. "Now, do you see anything? Any hairs not her colour? Do the size of the bruises on her throat give you any more information?

Jim's gaze quartered the small room, the flimsy, old furniture comprising of a small wooden table and two chairs, a rocker and a padded armchair all in disarray, proof that Nellie had fought and fought hard. The rag rug had been scrunched up and there was broken crockery on the floor. He spotted a couple of large, muddy boot tracks near the door on the otherwise scrupulously clean plank floor. The man was big - the large thumbprint bruises on her neck confirming that fact. Jim shook his head, wishing she'd screamed - he might have heard her - but Nellie was so quiet and she'd have been terrified, probably just too scared to cry out. Turning his attention to her hands and fingers, he found traces of black fur, coarse little hairs, embedded under the nails and a few strands of greasy dark brown hair entangled in her fingers.

"Very big man," he murmured, "long brown hair, likely wearing a coat made of bearskin."

"The trapper we saw drinking heavily in the saloon last night?" Sandburg postulated. He'd been a mountain of a man, impossible to miss as he sat hunched over the bar in his long hide coat, necessary as the wind could still be sharp this early in the spring. Bearded, filthy, surly and sullen, uncomfortable around other people, he'd been keeping to himself as he drank shot after shot of rotgut.

"Yeah, I think so," Jim grated, his jaw tight against his anger as he pulled her nightgown down and then stood. Sighing, he shook his head. "Damned shame."

"You think he's still around somewhere?" Blair asked, as he pulled a blanket from the bed and knelt to lay it over the dead woman after first, gently, straightening her limbs and head, and closing her eyes.

Nodding as he scratched his cheek, Jim figured, "Yeah, I reckon. He'd drunk too much to go far. Let's see if we can find his camp - can't be too far out of town."

They let themselves out of the small living quarters behind the school, stopping by the McCready's, who lived in the nearest house, to ask if they'd heard anything. Delores McCready, Silas' wife, was horrified to hear what had happened. She had five kids in the school and had known Nellie for years. Intimidated by her big, sometimes difficult, husband, Nellie had been the one she'd confided in. Weeping, she told them they'd heard nothing out of the ordinary the preceding night, and then pulling herself together before they left, she said she'd look after what needed doing to take care of her friend's remains.

Heading back along the town's single street, they stopped at the saloon to see if either McCready himself, or his bartender, Moe Gurning, might have an idea of where the trapper camped. Neither did, so they continued on to the General Store, where the man had probably sold his furs. Angus proved to be more helpful, saying he thought the trapper, by the name of Jorgenson, had said he'd set up camp about a quarter mile up the creek, and that he'd likely bring in more furs that day, since Angus had been willing to buy them. The beaver and raccoon skins, especially, were of interest to the shopkeeper, the demand out of Europe for 'coonskin hats' being very high, as well as the bearskins, as they made warm coverings for the deep winter nights.

Ellison and Sandburg thanked him and headed to their stable to saddle their horses. As they rode upstream, the scent of wood smoke on the light morning breeze told Jim they were getting close. Riding into the campsite warily, they found Jorgenson wrapped in his heavy bearskin coat and hunched over his fire, ignoring them as he stared into the flames. Dismounting, his right hand near his gun, Ellison walked a little closer, wrinkling his nose against the man's stench, and then asked, "Why'd you do it?"

The scruffy man, his long hair and his beard matted and filthy, looked up slowly, his blood-shot blue eyes not quite meeting Jim's. "Do what?" he ground out, his voice tight.

"Rape and kill Nellie Bascome," Jim replied coldly. "There's no point in denying it. I know it was you." He knew he had to bluff in the hope of getting a confession, because he sure didn't have much of consequence to put before the Circuit Judge. But the man's tripping heartbeat and tear-blurred eyes told him he was on the right track. The thick scent of fear emanating from the huge man at the sight of his Sheriff's badge was also indicative, if not conclusive.

The red-rimmed blue eyes flickered up to his, and then quickly away; but not before Jim saw the fear in them. Suddenly, the man's big shoulders slumped and he lifted his hands to cover his face. "I didn't mean t' hurt her…" he grated hoarsely. "She was so purdy, and she smiled at me, real sweet like, when I saw her in the Gen'ral Store." Once again lifting his face to Jim's, his expression beseeching, he continued with child-like candour, "Bin a long time since a woman smiled at me. I follered her home, so I know'd she lived in behind the school. I…I was skeer'd, shy - don' know how to talk to women. So I went back to the saloon to get me some Dutch courage." He stopped, unable to face the cold expression on Jim's face, and turned his head down to stare again into the flames, choking out, "When I went to see 'er, t'was late. She didn' wan' to let me in, but I pushed inside. I jus' wanted t' talk, mebbe touch her. I thought she liked me. But she hit me and then threw things - and I got mad." Swallowing, big tears slipping down his cheeks, he bent his head and wept. "I'm sorry," he stammered, sniffling like child. "I'm so sorry."

Ellison heard Sandburg heave a long sad sigh behind him, and he nodded in understanding, but their pity didn't change the ugly irreversible tragedy of Nellie's abuse and violent death, or alter the profound grief for her that ached inside both of them. "Come on; stand up. I'm Sheriff Ellison and I'm arresting you for the rape and murder of Nellie Bascome."

The big trapper didn't resist when Jim ordered him to mount his horse and precede them back to town.

* * *

The townspeople were horrified and deeply saddened by Nellie Bascombe's death. Every soul in Bitterwood Creek attended her funeral, and stood in the chilly rain as the casket was lowered into the ground. The school children sang 'Amazing Grace,' and it wasn't only the young ones and the women who wept. Nellie had been very special.

She had lived in Bitterwood Creek all her life, the only daughter of a woman who died giving her birth, and a father, the town's minister, who had succumbed to influenza when she was only fourteen. She'd been a solemn child, always older than her years, but also one who had learned early how to do what needed doing. Left alone, she'd looked around her small community, and decided they needed a school. In the long evenings of their solitary life together, Reverend Bascombe had taught her how to read and write, how to add, subtract, multiply and divide. A cultured man, he had filled their home with books and he shared them with her - histories of the world, an atlas, myths and legends, English literature (with a particular bias towards Shakespeare), and papers written by the Fathers of the Republic of the United States of America. So, after she'd buried her father, she looked at the books and decided, with what she had kept from her childhood, the first readers and grammars he'd bought for her, the fairytales and adventure stories, she had more than enough to get started with. She went round to every home, and soberly asked to be allowed to teach the children in the church, since it was empty anyway, most of the time. Some agreed, wanting to give the child something to do and figuring it couldn't hurt. She began with six children and, after the first year, folks began to think it was a good idea to have their young ones learn and so that summer, the schoolhouse had been built, with a little one-room place in the back for Nellie to live in. That had been thirteen years ago…to some folks it seemed like forever.

She'd be well remembered, and mourned for a very long time.

* * *

Pussy-willows appeared along the creek, the first subtle, but looked for and welcomed harbingers of a new season of hope and growth, of birth and rebirth as the seemingly dead and stark trees along the waterways hazed with green, and then broke into resplendent life. The ever-present wind smelled fresh and sweet with alfalfa and clover, and the fragrances of the profusion of wild flowers growing amongst the new long grass upon the prairie. Farmers' fields were tilled and planted; and calves were born, signaling the need soon for a roundup to brand the new cattle as well as take stock of the inevitable winter losses. The days grew longer and warmer, and people gratefully divested themselves of their heavy, cumbersome layers of winter clothing - some too soon, as attested by the rash of spring colds and 'flu; and not just amongst the children, but afflicting their elders, too, the doctor grumbling that _they_ were old enough to know better than to risk illness in their enthusiastic welcome of the milder, but certainly not yet consistently warm, weather.

But spring also heralded the return of the annual scourge of cattle rustlers, outlaws who hoped to profit by making off with cattle before the spring roundup, obscuring existing brands and claiming unbranded calves as their own. On Easter Sunday, taking advantage of their frequent regular Sunday visits to be out of town, Jim and Blair heard Simon and Joel's angry frustration with the losses they were beginning to tally as their cattle were rounded up, and the two ranchers shared their plans to ride out the next day, to search for the outlaws and reclaim their missing cows.

"I'll ride with you," Jim said staunchly. "If we can capture these guys, I'll put them in jail."

"I'll go, too," Blair chimed in.

"Ah, Blair," Joel hesitated, "this'll mean hard, fast riding - and it could get dangerous."

"All the more reason for me to go," the doctor responded stubbornly. "You might need my skills before it's all over."

Jim was about to throw in with Joel when Blair caught his eye and raised one brow. "And I may not wear the badge, but as I recall, I **_am_** the deputy sheriff," he cut in before Jim could try to talk him out of riding with them.

The look in Sandburg's eyes reminded the older man of exactly why he needed Blair's backup, whether in town or out on the range. Jim's gaze dropped, but he nodded, if grudgingly. "Blair's right, we might well need some doctoring before this is done."

Simon and Joel exchanged looks, frankly surprised, as they'd long come to appreciate that Ellison had a protective streak a mile wide when it came to the young physician, but they simply shrugged and thanked both men gratefully for their proffered support. When going up against rustlers, it was always handy to have the law on your side - and when bullets were bound to fly, a doctor could come in real handy, too.

Ellison and Sandburg spent the night on the ranch, and they were all up just before dawn when the air was still cool enough for their warm breath to gust in billows of white condensation. The horses snorted and stamped as the men got organized, loading up saddlebags filled with food that could be eaten in the saddle, and extra rounds of ammunition. Blair shivered but didn't complain, aware that no one really thought he should be going along. He wasn't a great horseman and he didn't wear a gun; in some ways, he was a worry without being an immediate or obvious help so, his Stetson pulled down low over his brow, his shoulders hunched, he tried to fade into the background.

Simon and Joel were leaving most of their men behind to watch over the main herd of more than three thousand head of cattle, but singled out five of their best hands, the toughest, and the ones with the best aim, to ride with them. The decision had been made the night before to head to the southwest section, where Rafe had reported seeing some suspicious tracks but hadn't found the cattle known to have wintered in that sector. By the time the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, they were on their way, Rafe taking point to show them the signs of strangers he'd noted as a beginning place from which to track the suspected rustlers.

The prairie, though wide and open, wasn't entirely flat but rolled like sea swells covered with long, waving grass that rippled in the wind. A sizable herd could be hidden in the hollows, unseen until a man was almost upon them. Cattle weren't silent creatures, but lowed in a modest cacophony of sound - unfortunately, the ever-present keening of the wind, as well as the gently rolling hills, obscured or blocked the sound so it wasn't much help in tracking them down. The grasses the heavy cattle trampled in passing were resilient, springing up again, leaving but a faint trail at best. All that to say, the ranch owners and their hands considered the hunt a hit and miss proposition, but were grimly resolved to quarter their land until they found the missing beasts.

When they reached the place where Rafe had spotted the hoofprints of strange horses, and climbed down from their mounts to study the ground, the Deputy sidled over to the Sheriff and mumbled, "You hear or smell anything that might clue us in as to which direction to ride in next, so maybe this won't have to take all week?"

Jim cut an amused look down at his stalwart backup, but obligingly tilted his head, focusing his hearing as he also sniffed the wind. Suddenly, he looked up and turned more toward the west, his eyes narrowing as he studied the horizon.

"You got something?" Blair asked, pleased and excited.

"Maybe," Jim temporized. "Simon," he called out as he waved toward the west. "I think we should head in that direction."

Puzzled as he looked up from the tracks he'd knelt to study more closely, Banks frowned. "Why?" he countered as he gestured down to the cluster of hoofprints that had dried in the spring mud. "The tracks head south."

Jim shrugged. "Call it a hunch, but I think I see some dust over yonder."

Straightening, Simon squinted toward the west and then asked Joel, "You see anything?"

"Uh-uh," the older man grunted. But then he smiled slowly as he admitted, "But that doesn't mean it isn't there. Our eyes aren't as young as they used to be."

Banks rubbed his nose as he looked at his other riders, but they, too, shrugged; they didn't see any dust on the horizon, either.

"Uh, you know Jim was in the Cavalry, right?" Blair offered tentatively. "He got really good at tracking and picking up subtle signs of the enemy that others wouldn't really notice…I guess."

"Yeah, that's likely it," Banks agreed, though he gave the two friends an odd, speculative look. It wasn't the first time he'd noticed that Jim seemed able to see or hear something other people couldn't, or that Blair offered some barely plausible explanation about how he ate so many carrots or had really good hearing. "Okay, why not?" he finally agreed, as he also recalled that Ellison was invariably right. "We'll head west. Let's mount up."

They rode for almost half an hour, Jim now in the lead with Blair close behind, before Ellison lifted a hand sharply, bringing them all to a halt. Dismounting in the hollow of a long swell of land, he crouched close to the ground as he loped up and flattened himself to peer over the top while the others waited, their hands on their horses' muzzles to keep them quiet. They were close enough now that they could all hear the soft lowing nearby, and smell the cattle on the wind.

Jim scrambled back down and waved the men into a tight circle around him. "All right," he said quietly, "we've found them - looks like about a hundred head of cattle in makeshift rope corral. I counted five rustlers, but there may be more. We'll need to spread out and come over the hill fast."

"Wait, maybe we need to make sure these are our cattle before we ride in, guns a'blazin'," Joel cautioned.

"No, I'm sure they're yours; I spotted some of the brands," Jim replied, turning away from Taggart's look of incredulity as he added. "And I recognize some of the men as lowlife drifters I noticed in town more'n a week ago."

Joel turned to Simon, and shook his head. An overgrown brand wasn't always that easy to make out close up - from the top of a hill and at some considerable distance, the rancher would've bet it was impossible.

"Carrots," Simon drawled with amused sarcasm in an undertone to his partner. "Lots'n lots of carrots."

Overhearing him, Blair blushed a little, but otherwise ignored the comment. Jim just snorted, and continued coaching his forces for their sweep up and over the rise. Once he had the rest organized to attack on his order, he turned to Blair and said firmly, "Doc - you wait here. I don't want you in the line of fire. Understood?"

"Yes, mama," Blair drawled, causing some of the others to snicker quietly. Jim smacked him lightly on the arm, but grinned as he turned away to mount Lobo.

Seconds later, the Sheriff and the men of the Gold Ribbon Ranch were thundering up the low rise, rifles or six-guns at the ready, and then flying down the other side, catching the rustlers completely by surprise.

Blair bit his lip at the sudden flurry of shots, and flinched as he heard first one man and then another scream out in pain. Ignoring Ellison's direction, he scrambled to the top of the rise to see what was going on, though he cautiously kept low to the ground. Squinting, he tried to sort out the confusion of what now appeared to be chaos: terrified cattle were milling around, pressing against the flimsy ropes of a makeshift corral that held them back, and finally breaking loose but uncertain of which way to stampede, and the plunging horses of his friends who had already reached the herd; the desperate resistance of the rustlers who were shooting back as they tried to make their escape; roiling dust and earth kicked up by the hundreds of hooves; the bellowing of the cattle mingling with gunsmoke in the air; a continuous racket of sound as weapons were fired. Dammit, he hated feeling so helpless and useless while his friends faced danger.

Sandburg saw Rafe suddenly lurch in his saddle, barely hanging on as his mount bucked amongst the roiling cattle. Without even really thinking about what he was doing, only knowing the others were all too busy to notice that Rafe was in trouble, Blair whistled for Butternut and swung up into the saddle, racing over and down the low rise toward his wounded friend - and he got there just in the nick of time, as Rafe began to slip from his mount. Grabbing the wounded man around the waist, Sandburg hauled him over to lie belly down over Butternut's withers. Holding tight to his barely conscious friend, wheeling Butternut around to race to safety, Blair flinched as a bullet whined past his head and ducked reflexively as he continued to urge his horse out of the mêlée.

Ellison saw his best friend suddenly in the midst of the battle and swore, but didn't have time for much else as he brought down a rustler who had a bead on Joel. The confusion of battle seemed long, but in truth, the contest lasted less than ten minutes. Three rustlers were dead and would be buried where they lay, two others were wounded, and one surrendered by tossing away his weapon and lifting his hands - prison was better than a pine box. Rafe had taken a bullet in the arm, and two other ranch hands had been grazed, but they'd all live.

Sandburg was giving hasty field treatment to a pale and very woozy Rafe, packing the wound and tying it off tightly to slow the blood loss until he could get the bullet out at the ranch, as Jim thundered back over the rise, livid with fury that Sandburg had put himself at such risk. Dear God, Blair could have been killed! The very thought of Sandburg putting himself in such peril both infuriated and sickened Jim. If something happened to Blair, Jim was fairly certain he'd fly apart in pieces. Blair had somehow become his rock, his foundation. The thought of how easily he might have lost him made him want to shake Sandburg, so that he'd never do anything so stupid or reckless again.

Slamming down onto the ground, Ellison stalked over, shouting, "I thought I told you to stay back and out of the line of fire!"

"Uh-huh," Blair agreed impassively as he continued with his work, "I distinctly remember you telling me that, yes."

"Then what the hell were you doing in the middle of…" Jim raged, but his words died when Blair looked up and nailed him with a hard, cold look - and, for the first time, Ellison _really_ saw the man who had not only survived Masonville against all the odds, but had also ensured countless others had survived as well - had even killed to protect someone in his care.

"You finished?" Sandburg asked, his voice cool and remote.

Swallowing, Jim gritted his jaw and looked away. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Good, because I have work to do - have them bring all the wounded to me," Blair directed calmly. "I'll fix them up, at least temporarily, until we get back to the ranch." Dismissed, Jim turned away, but behind him, he heard Blair's voice murmuring so softly as to be almost silent, but still resonating with evident relief, "Jim, I'm really glad you weren't hurt - and thanks for worrying about me."

Ellison sighed and nodded as he continued toward Lobo.

As he rode back over the rise to have the wounded sent to Blair and take charge of the prisoners, Jim was haunted by the look in Sandburg's eyes, and the sound of his voice as he'd made it clear he was his own man, strong and fearless, more than able to face down whatever the world threw at him - and Jim cursed.

How the hell was he supposed to protect a man who refused to be protected? Sandburg wouldn't wear a gun, though he'd quite obviously not hesitate to rush into danger, even when bullets were flying. But, clearly, Blair wasn't some helpless, vulnerable innocent who only required his protection. Sandburg was a man whose strength could rival, maybe even surpass, his own and he wondered who protected whom most in their friendship.

He couldn't help but respect Sandburg's quiet strength and courage…but God such bravery was terrifying.

* * *

It was late when they finally got back to town with the captured rustlers in tow. And, when the two friends saw the blood-red cross splashed onto the front door of the Doctor's Office, and the dried remains of broken eggs, they were glad no one about: Jim, because he would have probably shaken the information about who had done this out of anyone within reach; Blair, because he didn't need anyone witnessing him coming home to the vandalism. While the Sheriff got his prisoners settled in jail, the Doctor washed off the door and, remembering the old cans and brushes in the shed in the back, he found some of the paint that had been used on the inside hall. It didn't take long to cover the door with two coats of light blue paint, though he wasn't sure anything but time could erase the memory of the ugliness underneath.

When Jim came in later, still steaming about the viciousness of the act and the stunned hurt he'd seen in Blair's eyes, Sandburg just held up a hand.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said wearily. "We went out to the ranch because we knew this religious occasion could be difficult. I'm not surprised; these things…happen. It could have been worse."

"Chief, I'll find out who…" Jim grated

"No," Sandburg shook his head. "Some did it, others witnessed it and did nothing to stop it. And it was probably just some kids, anyway. If you go after whoever is responsible, it will only make the bad feelings worse. It'll pass, Jim. Let it go."

"It's not right!" Jim exclaimed, appalled that Blair had come to not only accept such abuse, but wasn't prepared to do anything about it.

Blair nodded, his expression carefully controlled. "I don't disagree with you - but I want to make my _home_ here," he explained patiently. "I'm _tired_ of wandering. So, if once a year, part of the price I have to pay is a freshly-painted door, I can live that. But if you go after the perpetrator, and people start to take up sides, I'll lose. And I'd have to leave. So, please - just let it go."

Reluctantly, Jim nodded. Unable to help himself, he moved forward and drew Blair into a hug. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "Really sorry you have to take this kind of crap. It's wrong, Chief. So very wrong."

* * *

Spring slid into summer, the sun growing hot and the wind dry, burning the flowing prairie grass brown. The single wide street of Bitterwood Creek again thronged with activity - farmers coming in to sell produce; transient drifters, stopping for a night to drink in the saloon and, if they got lucky at the poker tables, passing a little quality time in one of the rooms above the saloon before getting a good night's sleep in the hotel. The daily stages thundered into town, bringing mail, and sometime folks coming to visit family and friends, but more often, dropping off or picking up those who were just passing through. Drifters and grifters, gypsies and thieves, gamblers and cowboys, and tramps down on their luck, milled around town, some for but a few hours before moving on, some for days. The saloon did a lively business, its music and raucous laughter again splashing out into the night. There were brawls and quick, sometimes deadly, gunplay as frayed tempers sparked. Jim and Blair were kept busy day and night, until both were fatigued to the edge of exhaustion, but there was no rest for the weary.

One day in mid-June, Ellison was ambling along the street when he spotted Sandburg down at the end of town, standing with his head bowed in the church's cemetery. Curious, concerned, he jogged the intervening distance, slowing as he reached his partner's side. Laying a light hand on Blair's shoulder, Jim asked, "Are you all right?"

Blair nodded, but it was a moment before he looked up from Nellie's grave. "It was a year ago today that I wandered into town," he told Jim. "Nellie…Nellie was the first person I met. She, uh, she welcomed me and said I was the answer to all their prayers…"

"She was right, Chief," Jim murmured quietly.

Blair lifted his face to the pale blue sky as he murmured, "I miss her. You didn't get to know her all that well, but she was a really wonderful human being. Kind. Sweet. Quick to help anyone who was in need; and she was so great with the kids. They all loved her. Everybody loved her."

Ellison rubbed his friend's shoulders with gentle understanding, suddenly realizing that maybe Johnny Winston hadn't been the only one who'd been sweet on Nellie. "I'm sorry, Sandburg," he murmured, not knowing what else to say. Sadly, he reflected that if Blair had cared that way about the young woman, in those early days especially, he'd never have said or done anything to reveal his feelings. He was accepted as their physician, but he was also the only person of Jewish heritage in the very small town - back when he'd first arrived, and maybe even now, people wouldn't have taken to him courting a good Christian woman. Jim bowed his head, both deeply angry and sorrowful that his very decent, kind, sweet friend had to carry so many burdens in silent dignity in deference to the stupid, blind prejudices of people who scarcely deserved his care. Like Simon and Joel, Blair was 'different' \- and Jim wondered sadly if, like the older men, Blair would grow old without a family of his own to love, and who would love him back.

"Yeah," Blair sighed again, and then turned to walk with his friend back to town. As they passed the bank, Blair perked up as he said, "It's almost a year since you rode into town. Glad you stayed?"

"Oh, yeah," Jim nodded as he cut a quick look down at his best friend. "You know, I think this is the first real home I've ever known."

Sandburg smiled, the sparkle coming back to his eyes as he murmured, "I'm glad, Jim. Place wouldn't be the same without you, man."

Jim slung an arm around his partner's shoulder as they continued along the busy thoroughfare. Lost in their respective and shared memories of the past year, neither noticed the clutch of five grim men who rode in and tied up outside the saloon. Just another bunch of drifters in town for a Saturday night who, like as not, would be gone by morning.

Megan was sitting in a comfortable wooden rocker in front of her hotel, a sheaf of writing paper on her knees, and she was chewing on the end of her pencil as she gazed out at the activity on the busy street.

"How's the book coming along?" Blair asked cheerfully as they approached her.

Connor started, then made a moue of displeasure as Jim echoed disbelievingly, "Book?"

"Yeah," Blair replied with a grin. "Megan's writing about life in a western town. She's going to be rich and famous someday!"

"Well, that's the plan, anyway," Megan grinned devilishly as she batted her eyelashes up at Blair.

Catching the slight flirtation, Jim teased, "I'll bet the local doctor has a starring role in this book. Nobly saving life after life…"

Sandburg snorted, cutting him off. "Hardly. There's not much nobility in treating croup or fixing up fingers broken in fights." Looking up at Jim, he added, "The glamour is in big, strong, sheriffs who risk their lives keeping the law and protecting the citizens of the good town."

Conner aided and abetted the teasing as she added, "That's right, mate. Tall, handsome, silent, eagle-eyed sheriffs who never miss a shot and can suss out bad guys on a hunch."

Jim blushed faintly and looked away. Her observations were a little too close for comfort.

Snickering, Blair added, "If I can ever help you out, Megan, you know with tales of the brave sheriff's daring-do, let me know!"

"Good on ya," Megan laughed as she turned her attention back to her notes and the two best-looking men in town - in her opinion anyway - continued their amble along the boardwalk back to the doctor's office.

Once inside their home, Blair headed toward his desk, saying he had to catch up on his notes from the last tests he'd run with Jim; even after a year, he hadn't given up finding new ways to help Ellison develop the use of his senses.

Jim frowned and scratched his cheek, slowly following Blair into the office. He'd never been comfortable with Blair keeping those notes - they made him feel like some kind of insect being studied, his every behaviour being analyzed and recorded for posterity. His senses were his business and he didn't want anybody else knowing about them. "Sandburg, I don't know why you keep those notes," he complained again, far from the first time. "What if somebody finds them?"

"Nobody's going to find them, Jim," Blair mumbled, already concentrating on what he wanted to write as he dabbed his quill pen into a small bottle of ink. "I've explained to you before; I'm keeping them for reference, that's all."

Ellison swallowed as he crossed his arms, not liking where his thoughts were taking him, but unable to stop wondering. He'd just been thinking that Sandburg had few choices in this town if he wanted to settle down with a wife, but…Conner wasn't from the town. Nobody would think twice if the exotic woman from Australia settled down with the Jewish doctor. And, he'd noticed that Sandburg and Conner teased and flirted quite a bit. He hadn't known about the book. But maybe Sandburg hoped to win her favour by giving her choice tidbits about a certain 'eagle-eyed sheriff' and his 'hunches'. "You weren't thinking of maybe sharing some of those notes with Megan Conner were you?" he asked defensively, his tone aggressive and accusatory.

"What?" Blair looked up, frowning. "Where'd you get that idea?"

"From you," Jim charged belligerently. "You're always flirting with her, and you just finished telling her you had lots of juicy tidbits."

"Excuse me?" Sandburg flared as he stood to face Jim. "You think I don't know you want this kept private? That I'd betray you? For sexual favours? Or - you figure she'd share the by-line and I'd get rich and famous, too, when her book is published? Is that it? You think I've been just using you all this time for my own purposes?"

"You sure keep pretty detailed notes for no good reason!" Jim snarled back defensively, but more now because of the contempt in Sandburg's eyes than because he really believed Blair would sell him out.

"You are a real piece of work, you know that?" Blair seethed. His eyes flashing, he stormed, "You know what I think? I think you're sweet on Megan yourself, but you're too damned unwilling to trust anyone or get close to anyone or make a commitment to anyone, to do anything about it. So you imagine I'm making eyes at the woman you fancy. Well, for your information, yes, I like her, as a friend - that's it. And no, I'm not planning to, in any way or at any time, publish anything about you to get rich. Maybe, someday, if this damned Indian war ever ends and we get to spend time with Swift Eagle and Whispering Waters, I could write an article or something about them and the concept of sentinels, showing that they do exist in our world - maybe it might **_help_** somebody like you someday. But, mainly, I've been keeping these notes for **_you._** I'm a doctor - I'm around sick people all the time. What happens if **_I_** get hurt or sick someday and I'm not around to back you up anymore? You need help; you know you do! How would you begin to explain to Simon or whoever how your senses work? These notes could **_help you_** , man! God damn it, Jim. I **_thought_** you trusted me."

With that, Sandburg pushed past Ellison, stormed down the hall and out the back.

 ** _"Sandburg!"_** Jim shouted after him, feeling ten times a fool. He loped down the hallway to the back door, but by the time he got there, Blair was already gone, maybe to walk along the creek. Sagging against the doorframe, Ellison pulled off his Stetson and rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. "Dammit," he muttered as he looked off toward the thick trees that lined the creek behind their property.

He bowed his head as he crossed his arms, fighting the fear Blair's words had sparked in his soul. What if something did happen to the kid someday? What if - he lost Sandburg? Pushing off the wall to go back inside, Jim told himself it was never going to happen. Sandburg was strong, and a hell of a lot younger than he was. Blair was a doctor, not a man who faced down fools who hadn't sense enough to leave their guns in their holsters. The odds were, he'd die before Sandburg would - and that was the only thought that gave Jim any measure of comfort. He'd acted like an idiot and had hurt the kid - who had only been doing his best by him. Well, he'd just have to swallow his pride and apologize. He couldn't have Sandburg thinking he didn't trust him, not when he'd gladly trust Blair with his soul, let alone his life.

Blair returned about half an hour later, his expression still stiff. Jim, looking apologetic, rose from the chair in the kitchen, where he'd been drinking a cup of coffee, when the kid walked in. "Chief, I…"

But Blair just lifted a hand to silence him. "Don't talk to me, Jim - I'm still 'way too angry." Resolutely, Sandburg turned his back as he stoked up the fire in the stove, and began banging around the worktable and cabinets as he pulled their dinner together.

They still weren't talking when Simon and Joel came into town later that afternoon with a bunch of their riders, to visit and have a little fun. Their men headed straight to the saloon, while the two ranchers dropped in to see Ellison and Sandburg. The astute older men picked up on the signs of tension, most particularly that the two friends didn't seem to be talking to one another, though they seemed downright glad to have some company. Curious as to what was going on, the ranchers let themselves be talked into staying for a quick meal with Jim and Blair before the lawmen set off on their routine evening patrol of the town. They were just finishing up, and the atmosphere had lightened a little, when Rafe came to find them, walking straight into the kitchen with easy familiarity.

"Jim, Simon - I think there may be trouble brewing in the saloon," Rafe said soberly. "A bunch of tough-looking drifters have been buying drinks and asking for all the details of the attempted bank robbery last year. They seem particularly interested in knowing just exactly who killed the bandits."

"Really," Jim muttered as he stood and reached for his Stetson from the peg by the doorway into the hall. "Well, let's go see what makes these fellows so curious."

They strode out into the evening dusk, moving swiftly along the boardwalk to the saloon. When they reached the swinging half-doors, Rafe took a moment to point out three of the men, but he couldn't see the other two in the dense crowd of the packed establishment. Once inside, Simon moved to one side of the large, congested room, Rafe and Joel to the other, all of them keeping close watch on the three men Rafe had singled out. Their backs covered, Jim and Blair pushed through the usual weekend mob to the far end of the long wooden bar. The air was smoky and the noise of laugher and singing, piano playing and gambling was deafening. Jim struggled to listen in on snatches of conversation as he looked for the other two men Rafe had seen earlier.

Finally, he picked out one of the men, a rough-looking, unshaven cowboy about thirty years old, who was packing some heavy artillery. He was assiduously plying another man with drink while encouraging him to be sure to point out Ellison and Banks when they came into the saloon. The local man, one of the Gold Ribbon riders by the name of Taffy, nodded agreeably, but gave Jim a quick knowing look over the stranger's shoulder. When Jim held up his hand discreetly behind the apparently very generous stranger's back, ticking off four fingers as his eyes darted around the room, and then cocked his brow as he touched his thumb, Taffy shrugged and took another sip of the good whisky the troublemaker had bought for him - he was rather enjoying the fun of babysitting the stranger and stringing him a line, until the Sheriff could sort things out.

Jim rubbed his nose, irritated by the hazy, smoky air and the stench of so many rough, hard-working and seldom-bathed men as he again scanned the saloon, trying to spot the fifth potential troublemaker, but he didn't see any likely candidates. With a quick, deliberate look at Blair, he said firmly if quietly, "Stay behind me, Sandburg." When Blair nodded, Jim moved forward to grip the shoulder of the man who was evidently so eager to meet him. "I hear you're looking for me," he said in a flat tone when the man turned. "I'm Jim Ellison. Who might you be?"

"So - you're the big hero?" the stranger drawled, an ugly light coming into his eyes - hatred, pure and simple.

"I didn't catch your name," Jim pressed, watching the man warily, knowing he meant trouble but not sure why. Could be a friend of one of the bandits shot in the attempted robbery - could be family.

Blair shifted uneasily, not liking the situation one bit. The four men he'd seen so far looked dangerous in their travel-worn, dusty clothing, their unkempt appearances and surly manner - not to mention the way they stood with their hands hovering close to their guns. They were gunslingers - probably outlaws - and they had the air of men on a mission. Looking around, he checked on what was happening with the other three gunmen, and saw them all tensing, as if they were anticipating something, and were ready for violence. He'd seen it in the War, just before battle when men awaited the signal to attack. He was about to warn Jim when he felt a subtle shift of the air as the back door behind him opened. Turning, he saw the glint of lamplight on the barrel of the gun trained on Jim's back - and he only had time to shout as he lurched forward to push his friend out of the way - **_"JIM! Behind…"_**

One sharp sudden shot - death's invitation to dance…

Jim - warned, then hit from behind- dropping, rolling, drawing his gun, blasting the ambusher…

…four more outlaws reaching for guns, arrogant, too confident…

…sudden shots, blasting like thunder, sharp, rolling explosions…

> > …crashing through laughter and music…
>> 
>> …a woman's high-pitched scream of terror…

…bystanders, shocked and afraid, hitting the floor, tables overturning, impromptu shields against the violence and death rampaging unfettered…

> > …split seconds never to be recalled…

…killers, who'd not kill again, grunting in surprise and pain, eyes wide with shocked astonishment and then…empty as time stopped…bodies already dead crumpling in untidy heaps onto the wood-planked, dusty, sawdust-covered floor…

…five men standing tall and grim, smoking six-guns in their fists…

…Simon…Joel…Rafe…Taffy…the Sheriff…

Silence - as sudden and complete as the violence had been shattering.

Ellison did a quick visual check around the saloon to ensure everything was under control as he muttered, "Thanks, Sandburg."

Then he turned to reflexively help his friend to his feet, only to freeze in stunned disbelief. It couldn't be…not…

 ** _"BLAIR!"_** he cried out as he dropped to his knees beside Sandburg, who was curled tightly on the filthy saloon floor.

Blair's hands were pressed against his left side, just under his ribs, as he vainly tried to stem the bright flow of crimson that already saturated his clothing and was soaking into the sawdust-covered planks beneath him. Jaw clenched against the ravaging, clawing agony, fear flickering in wide eyes dark with pain, clammy with shock, he fought the panic that was building in his chest, stealing his breath.

He was a doctor - he **_knew_** what the wound meant.

He was the **_only_** doctor in town - he **_couldn't_** afford to lose it - **_had_** to hold on…

Ellison quickly but gently rolled the kid onto his back, supporting his friend's head and shoulders with one strong arm, as his other large hand came down to cover Sandburg's in his own futile effort to staunch the river of blood, as he gasped, "How bad?"

Simon, Joel and Rafe pushed through the stunned crowd at Jim's horrified shout, arriving in time to hear Blair's low moan as he fought the nausea of shock and pain, and struggled to remain conscious. _"Bad,"_ the kid grated; his face was pale and drawn, his teeth clenched against the agony burning through his body. _"Bleeding to death…get me…home…"_

 _"Sweet Jesus,"_ Simon swore softly, and then joined Joel and Rafe as they cleared a path through the people who now crowded around in curiousity, some with anxious concern.

Jim pulled Blair into his arms, cradling his best friend against his chest as he stood and strode as fast he could past the sprawled bodies of the unknown gunmen, through the now silent throng of Saturday night revelers, out into the night. The lawman was oblivious to everything but the reality of Sandburg in his arms. He could feel Blair shuddering with pain, could smell his best friend's blood, could hear Blair's heart tripping too fast and faltering, his ragged breathing - and Jim was more terrified than he'd ever been in his life.

* * *

Ellison carried Sandburg straight back into the infirmary, and laid him carefully on the operating table; their friends close on his heels. Frantically, he pulled up Blair's shirt and loosened his jeans, taking the towel Simon thrust at him to press against the hemorrhaging wound. When Jim looked up into Sandburg's eyes, he saw that Blair's pupils were dilating from blood loss, his skin clammy and blue-tinged with shock. The kid was dying and he didn't know what the hell to do to stop it…

 _"Jim…"_ Blair gasped, reaching out to lock his fingers around Ellison's wrist. _"You have to…"_

 ** _"I don't know how!"_** Ellison cut in, sick with helplessness.

 _"Listen!"_ Sandburg hissed, his teeth clenched against the pain as he struggled to fight off the darkness encroaching on the edge of his vision _. "Think it ruptured my…spleen. Have to get it out, spleen and bullet. Not hard…"_

"What?" Jim gasped, as he cut a quick look up at Simon and Joel. "I can't…"

 _"You can!"_ Blair insisted sharply, having no time to argue. _"Simple…you can **see…feel** …"_

Pain flared and he moaned. Panting for breath, Blair swallowed hard against the nausea that twisted in his gut and the agony that ripped through him ruthlessly, blinding him with its intensity. Grimly, with the sheer force of will and a desperate desire to live and not die, he fought through the morass of the hellacious inferno in his gut. Determined to help Jim help him, he dug deep for the strength to speak, to be coherent - to guide. _"Cut slowly…"_ he grated, _"through skin, then muscle…three-four inch incision…laterally across the wound."_

Another moan he couldn't fight back robbed him of breath, but he laboured on, drawing strength now from Jim's grip on his shoulder, the hand holding his own as they both pressed down on the wound, not letting him go. _"Follow path of the bullet,"_ he gasped, pushing past the pain, blinking to clear his vision as he tried to focus on Ellison. Jim needed him, needed help with his senses. More, needed to believe in something, someone. Needed to know one damned thing in his life wouldn't let him down. Wouldn't just disappear like smoke in the wind. Couldn't let Jim down. _"Spleen is dark red, likely pumping out blood…tie off two biggest blood vessels, and then, …cut the spleen out…cauterize vessels…."_

He had to stop again to catch his breath, fighting a groan that was building in his chest. Breathily, wheezing with the effort, he closed his eyes and just got the rest of it said. _"Then, feel for the bullet - gently. Close to intestines. Might have nicked…clean out as best you can. Use whiskey, sulfa powder. Suture any rips. Then close, one layer…at a time."_

Jim blinked as he listened, trying to take it all in, trying to make sense of what was happening, struggling not to panic. It was too much, too fast. He tried to concentrate but all he could see and hear was the horrific pain Sandburg was suffering - because Blair had blocked a bullet meant for him. "God help me, Blair, I don't know if I can…"

 _"Have to…"_ Sandburg faltered, his eyes losing focus as he struggled with what he was demanding. Did he ask too much? What if…what if he couldn't be saved? Licking his lips, he swallowed and then whispered, _"I'm dying…nothing to lose - right? If…if doesn't work…not your fault."_

When he heard Jim's muted groan at those words, he struggled to refocus, to see Jim through the haze of shock and pain - saw the lines of strain around Jim's eyes and mouth - and realized the hyper-sensitive senses were acting up with the shock and fear that Ellison was striving so hard to control. Jim's eyes were glazing with confusion as he struggled to understand what he had to do, but he was overwhelmed. He couldn't do this alone.

Sandburg closed his eyes in despair, not sure what to do, what he could do. The pain twisted within him, like a living beast clawing him apart, and he was feeling so hazy from loss of blood that he wanted desperately to sleep. For a long moment, he just focused on breathing and, clinging to consciousness as he struggled with the raw understanding that he couldn't let go, forced himself to think. He couldn't surrender to the darkness that would give him some measure of peace, so he forced his eyes back open. He wasn't the only one suffering. His best friend was coping with more than Jim could handle - the shock and severity of his injury, probably some guilt, and fear that he'd die, in which case Jim would likely blame himself, as wrong as that was. Sandburg understood that Jim doubted he'd be good enough, believed that he'd kill him…and Blair knew if he died on the table, Jim would never get past it. Weakly, he reflected that there was a reason doctors weren't supposed to treat their loved ones, their family. It was just too damned hard. There was no distance, no objectivity. **_He_** was the doctor, not Jim. He **_had_** to hold on - more, he **_had_** to help Jim through the surgery if they were ever to come out of this whole. _"Jim,"_ he sighed wearily with resigned acceptance of what must be, of what he'd have to endure. _"It's okay. You don't have to do this…alone. Just…just be my hands and my eyes…I'll guide you…each step. Please…be my hands…"_

The others listened to Sandburg struggle to coach Ellison, hoping Jim understood the faltering, breathy words, shamefully glad the responsibility wasn't theirs. Simon put a pot of water to boil on the stove, while Joel rapidly sorted through Blair's instruments. Neither had ever had medical training but, over the years, they'd had to do some 'doctoring' of riders injured on the range, so they both had a basic idea of what would be needed. Simon had watched Blair work before, had assisted him, and was willing to do whatever he could to help Jim now. Rafe rifled through the cabinets, pulling out supplies labeled as disinfectant, herbs, sulfa powder, laudanum, grabbing the bottle of medicinal whiskey and putting everything on the worktable, ready if and when needed. Then, he searched out more towels and bandages and put them on the workbench by the operating table. He overheard the word, 'cauterize', and pulled out his own knife to rest on the hot stove until it was needed.

 _"Turn down…blue lantern,"_ Blair mumbled, knowing he had to help Jim dampen the sensory overload, cut back on distractions - and deliberately giving his friend a task his best friend could do easily to distract and calm him.

The others thought he was becoming delirious but Jim understood and nodded. The effort of focusing on his sense of smell helped to steady him and restore him to some measure of calm. He could do this. He had to. Blair needed him. God, he was terrified, but there was no choice. Sandburg was _dying_.

Opening his eyes, he reached to lay his palm against his best friend's cold cheek, wordless with the fear of what he was going to have to do - and, more, from his abiding terror that he'd fail. But as he gazed into Blair's wide blue eyes, all he could see was trust and warm affection glowing back at him.

But Sandburg saw the aching fear in his best friend's eyes, and knew he had to do one thing more. He had to absolve Jim of any responsibility if things went bad. It was all he could offer, all he could do to give Ellison some peace of mind. Gripping Ellison's wrist as tightly as he could, he murmured, _"Jim, whatever happens…thanks."_ And then, from somewhere deep in his soul, he conjured up a weak smile as he teased in a breathy whisper, _"Just remember…wash your hands first, 'kay?"_

"Okay, kid," Jim murmured as he tenderly brushed errant locks from his friend's brow. It was time. He could only do his best. Gesturing to Rafe to take his place in pressing upon the wound to stem the pulsing gush of blood, he summoned his own determination and turned resolutely to the basin Simon had filled for him.

"God, Simon," he agonized softly as he lathered his hands. "I don't know if I can do this."

Banks laid a steadying hand upon his shoulder as he replied with staunch encouragement, "Blair thinks you can, and that's good enough for me."

Having dumped the scalpel, scissors, curved retractors, clamps, steel needle threaded with a long length of catgut into the boiling water, hoping he'd chosen the right stuff, Joel turned to hastily, if gently, undress Blair while Simon lit all the candles and lanterns in the room to give Jim enough light to work by.

Moving back to Sandburg's side as Jim timed the boiling instruments, Simon leaned down to murmur, "What about ether, Blair?"

Weakly, Sandburg shook his head. _"Need to be awake…s'long as…possible…to…help,"_ he gasped through the pain. _"Just…just hold me down…okay?"_

Banks closed his eyes and nodded as he laid his big, strong, hands on Blair's shoulders. "Okay," he choked out. Lifting his head, he looked toward Joel and Rafe, silently asking for their help in keeping Sandburg still. As strong and brave as Blair unquestionably was, it was going to hurt like hell when Ellison started working on him, cutting into his body - and Sandburg wouldn't be able to stop himself from flinching away. The others nodded, all of them speechless with emotion: profound admiration for the kid's courage, pity for the pain he was enduring - and sick with almost certain fear that he wouldn't survive.

Finally, Jim joined them at the table, laying the tray of instruments beside him on the workbench as he swallowed hard. He was white as a ghost, fighting the tremble in his hands as he picked up the sharp blade.

 _"S'okay, Jim,"_ Blair whispered, his voice little more than a wispy sigh. The others could scarcely hear more than a soft slur of words, and were amazed that Jim seemed to understand. _"Take your time…one layer at a time…slow and easy…"_

Ellison took a deep breath and nodded to Rafe to lift the sodden towel from Blair's body. Regardless of what Sandburg said, they were running out of time fast, and he had to do what needed to be done as quickly as possible. Laying the fingers of his left hand around the bullet hole, feeling through the skin to the muscle beneath, he drew the blade in a quick, shallow slice across the wound, wincing when Blair gasped. But he couldn't stop. Cutting deeper through the layers of muscles, using a towel to sop up the blood that spurted from the deeper wound and now the incision, too, he was unaware of the sweat that burst upon his brow.

Blair grunted with the effort he was expending to not cry out, to not jerk or fight the drag of the blade. Blinking, he grated, with urgent clarity, _"Simon…help him…retractors…"_

Joel and Rafe quickly shifted their grips to permit Simon to move across the table from Jim. Reaching for the curved metal retractors on the tray, he inserted them into either side of the wound, drawing it wider to allow Jim to see what he was doing.

Ellison found the spleen, if that's what it was - oddly reassured that Blair was right. It was the source of the river of blood that pumped out of his best friend's body. If he could stop that hemorrhage, then he could save Sandburg's life.

"Got it," he grated.

 _"Okay,"_ Sandburg sighed weakly, blinking against the gathering darkness, knowing he was fading fast. _"Find the vessels and tie them off, red one first…cauterize after cutting…"_

Quickly, Jim identified the blood vessels feeding and emptying the organ, fumbling a little as he tried desperately to tie them off with catgut, first the red artery, and then the blue vein. The vessels tied tightly, Ellison severed them, slicing the ruined spleen away; pulling it out, he quickly tossed it on the floor. Rafe risked letting go of Blair's legs as he swiveled to the stove to retrieve the knife he'd left there. Holding the searingly hot blade with a towel, he held out the grip toward Ellison, who paled but took it with a wordless nod.

Jim did what he had to, and the stench of roasting flesh filled the infirmary. Blair cried out hoarsely through his gritted teeth, panting like a steam engine as he struggled to hold on, tears wet on his cheeks…

The deep, gut-wrenching cry gave way to a low keening; his face and body were slick with cold sweat. Joel and Rafe kept a tight grip, and felt the rigidity of his muscles, evidence of the both the pain and the force of will he was exerting to simply endure as long as he could.

But the sound of Blair's suffering was tearing Jim apart, distracting him from the task at hand. _"Sorry, I'm sorry,"_ he choked, blinking rapidly to clear his burning, blurring vision.

"Keep going, Jim," Simon encouraged quietly. "You're doing just fine."

 _"Now the bullet…"_ Sandburg panted, focusing Jim back upon the actions he had to take.

Mopping up the blood that had pooled inside Blair's body, he then reached in with his right hand, delicately tracing the path of the bullet after it had smashed through Blair's spleen, his eyes pressed closed in concentration. He found the chunk of lead flattened against Sandburg's spine, and swallowed at how close the kid had come to being crippled for life. Shaking, he drew the bit of metal out of Blair's body and flung it furiously across the room. Once more, he mopped up blood, squinting to find the worst bleeders to tie them off so that he could more clearly see if there was any further tearing of tissue. The catgut slipped in his fingers, and he cursed, but persevered and finally succeeded. Now there were only slow trickles of blood, and when he patted the area dry, he could see what he was doing. Aware that Sandburg's breathing was increasingly ragged and far too shallow, the kid's heartbeat thundering like a trip-hammer in his ears, he focused his extraordinary sight, aligning it with touch, and quickly searched for anything more that might require repair. Very carefully, he felt for any nicks or tears, heaving a relieved sigh when he didn't find more damage.

"I think that's it," he muttered.

 _"Whiskey,"_ Sandburg gritted, the word garbled and indecipherable to everyone but Jim, who stopped and listened closely. _"In wound…clean…"_

"Simon, get me that bottle of whiskey over on the table," Jim ground out, his own jaw rigid with the understanding of what it would do to Blair.

Banks hastily retrieved the bottle and pulled out the cork plug, before handing it to Ellison.

For the first time since he'd begun the surgery, Jim looked down into Blair's face and quailed at the wretched sight of his best friend's bluish-gray visage twisted in an extremis of pain. "Blair?" he gasped, afraid, wondering how much more Sandburg could take.

Eyes glassy with shock and agony stared up at the ceiling, but tracked slowly to Jim's face as Blair tried to focus. _"Thanks, Jim…"_ he sighed so low that even Jim could barely hear him, and then he closed his eyes tight as he steeled himself for the next assault. _"After, just close…do it…"_

Jim sloshed a goodly amount of the refined alcohol into the cavity of the wound, knowing it was necessary, hating to hurt Blair anymore…

…Sandburg couldn't help it, though he tried, God he tried. A scream ripped out of his throat and his back arched as the searing burn of the whiskey erupted in his gut, pushing him past all limits of endurance. The scream choked off suddenly as he sagged limply - and every other man in the room froze, afraid it'd been too much - that the final hideous shock of overwhelming agony had killed him.

Grimacing, Jim had doubled forward as the pain of the terrible scream ripped through his head, and he thought he might throw up, but he forced the bile in his throat back down. The odours of blood, burned flesh and whiskey, of sweat and fear, swirled around him, overwhelming him, but he fought for control, ruthlessly turning down the flames in his imaginary bronze and blue lanterns, struggled to hang on and not lose himself in the fog of insensibility. The sudden silence terrified him…and for the first time since he'd met the man, he couldn't hear the rapid tattoo of Sandburg's heartbeat…stricken, he couldn't look up, couldn't bear to see…but he gasped, "Is he…"

Joel fumbled at Sandburg's throat and sobbed out his relief. "Thank God. He's still alive…"

They all sagged then, with relief that Blair was alive - and that he was finally beyond feeling pain. He'd suffered more than enough agony, more than they all knew they could really imagine.

Jim knew he was losing it. His whole body was shaking and his senses were spiking out of control. But he forced himself to focus on what he still had to do.

For Blair.

He wasn't done yet. Couldn't fall apart yet. He had to do this for Blair…had to…

No longer needing to hold Sandburg still, Rafe took the bottle from Jim's hands and passed him a packet of sulfa powder, while Joel stood by Ellison, a firm, steadying grip on his shoulder.

Stiffly, Jim emptied the sulfa into the wound, seeing it adhere to the whiskey and blood. Swiftly pulling his vision back, he willed his trembling hands to still and then he picked up the threaded needle and closed up the wound, a layer at a time. Everything else faded away as he forced himself to complete this last task. And though he wouldn't win any prizes for his fine stitching, he got the job done.

Rafe silently passed him herbs and another packet of the sulfa powder that he'd earlier found in the cupboard and placed on the worktable, and Jim dusted the wound liberally before covering it with a thick clean linen pad.

"That's it," Simon told him when Jim's hands seemed to freeze, incapable of further movement. Looking up, he realized Jim was about to pass out.

Joel felt Ellison begin to sag and shifted his grip quickly to steady Jim as he tilted, and then eased him to the floor. "Deep breaths, come on…" he encouraged calmly.

A shudder rippled through Ellison's body - cold and violent - as the shock and despair of the past hour grabbed hold and wouldn't let go. Jim swallowed convulsively but couldn't force back the nausea and bile burning the back of his throat; knew if he drew breath, he'd lose it. Twisting away from Joel's grip, he scrambled for the door, barely making it outside before he vomited violently. Sinking back against the wall of their home, trembling with his fear that Sandburg was going to die, Ellison gave up fighting the sob that filled his throat. Covering his face with his bloodstained hands, he wept.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Jim pulled himself back together and returned inside, he found the others had securely bound the dressing with broad strips of white linen gauze around Sandburg's midriff, and had moved Blair onto a more comfortable cot, covering him with a soft, cotton blanket. Most of the lanterns and candles had been extinguished, the room now shadowed. The mess of the surgery had been cleared away, the bloody clothing and linens set to soak in a pail by the stove. The instruments had been cleaned and placed upon the worktable. Medicines had been returned to the cupboard. And a basin of warm soapy water was ready for him to wash up. Rafe and Simon were gone, and Joel was sitting by the cot. The older man looked up at him, and nodded, but didn't say anything.

Jim blinked and sighed, and then moved to wash his hands, arms and face just as Simon came back into the room, carrying clean clothing for him. Only then did Jim realize his shirt and jeans were slick and sodden with Sandburg's blood.

"How're you holding up?" Simon asked quietly. When Jim just shook his head with infinite weariness, Simon set about helping him get out of the bloody garments and then steadied him as he pulled on the clean jeans and shirt. "You did good, Jim, real good. Any chance he has is because you gave it to him."

Ellison again shook his head slowly as he turned his gaze on Sandburg. "He saved my life tonight, Simon. I was the target - not him."

"I know," Banks sighed as he put an arm around Jim's back and guided him to a chair on the far side of Sandburg's bed. Though Jim looked like he needed to lie down himself, Simon doubted there was any point in suggesting it. Ellison wouldn't give way to exhaustion until he knew if Blair was going to live or die.

"I'll go put on some coffee," Joel said as he stood and left the infirmary. It was going to be a long night.

Jim reached out to grip Sandburg's wrist and, oblivious to everything else around him, he concentrated on listening to Blair's shallow breathing and the irregular beat of his heart.

* * *

A single lantern flickered low, its fragile illumination dancing into the shadows. Simon and Joel had both fallen asleep on other cots more than an hour before, long after Rafe had returned briefly to let them know that the corpses of the dead had been attended to, and that everyone in town was over at the church, praying for the life of their doctor. Jim had nodded, grateful for the support of his friends and the townspeople, but he hadn't said anything.

In the silence that was broken only by the sonorous, low snoring of the older men, Jim studied Sandburg's face, starkly pale beneath the dark shadow of his beard, as his mind drifted back over the past year.

One year ago, he'd resigned his commission in bitterness and disgust, and had felt lost, with no direction. It had been a hell of a way to celebrate his thirty-fifth birthday, and put an end to twenty-two years of everything that had been his life.

One year ago, he'd been locked in a cell with nothing but his thoughts and recriminations for company.

One year ago, he'd vowed never to trust, never to care so much, ever again…

So much had changed since those dark hours.

He'd found new purpose, and joined a fine community of people…had made good friends. Had learned to understand his confusing senses, and had learned to trust again. Simon had been a big help, a tremendous source of strength and encouragement.

But it was Sandburg who had really made it all happen for him. Had healed him, in so very many ways. Had explained what he was \- a sentinel, a watchman, specially gifted to serve and protect his community. Had given him a home - had become his best friend. More, Jim admitted to the anguish in his heart. He loved Blair more than he loved life itself, more than anything in all creation. _He'd_ vowed to himself, almost a year ago, to protect Blair, to always keep him safe…

And now Blair had saved _his_ life - without doubt the best and the _very worst_ , birthday gift he'd ever received, though of course Sandburg had no way of knowing that, when the kid had taken a bullet to save his best friend with no thought to his own safety…but at what cost?

Ellison knew he would forever curse the day of his birth if it led to Sandburg's death…

Biting his lip, Jim again forced back the thickness in his throat, as he had countless times throughout the night. He couldn't imagine what his life would have become if he hadn't met Sandburg. Crazy kid. So brilliant and insightful, it was scary. Funny. Kind. Generous. Wild curly hair and big wide blue eyes, endlessly curious and almost always talking…except when he was listening with everything he was - his mind, his heart and his soul. Nobody else would have known how to help him, would have picked up and understood about his hypersensitivity. Blair filled up all the empty spaces, warmed away the chill of disillusionment and bitterness, brought hope and joy, his laughter too infectious to resist, wise man and imp, healer and friend…and brother. From the first moment, Blair had offered everything he had to give, openly, generously, with no thought of recompense of any kind. And now he'd offered his life…to save a man who'd far rather die himself than lose Sandburg.

Ellison felt a flush of shame as he recalled the fight they'd had the afternoon before and his wild accusations. He'd never really thought Blair would betray him - it had all just been his defensiveness about the damned senses and how different they made him feel, and he knew it.

Reaching out with trembling fingers to stroke Sandburg's brow, he wished he'd had a chance to apologize, to say he'd never meant any of it - that he **_did_** trust Blair completely, without question. God, he hoped the kid knew that. Didn't still believe that Jim doubted him. As for Megan Conner, well, sure, he thought bitterly, she was attractive, but he hadn't ever given her much thought. No - it had all been about the notes and his fears of being seen as a freak of nature. Stupid, so stupid - why hadn't he realized Blair was keeping the notes only as a backup in case Jim needed them? He'd never thought about the possibility of Blair not being around - and now, as if putting that terrible possibility into words had worked some kind of curse, only hours later, Blair could well be dying.

Bowing his head, Jim wondered what he'd do if Sandburg died, and the inconceivable grief of that possibility twisted in his gut and squeezed his heart, making it hard to breathe. He wasn't sure he could bear the thought of remaining in Bitterwood Creek - but he was equally sure Blair would be disappointed in him if he left. Smiling a little to himself, he imagined the arguments that Sandburg would pose - that the town needed him, and he needed the town - that his friends were here…

And he wondered what Blair's life would have been like if he'd never ridden into this town. One thing was sure…he wouldn't be lying here now, his life hanging by a thread…

"Live," Jim commanded quietly, as he brushed a wayward curl from his friend's face. "You're needed here, too. Your friends don't want you to go. This is your home - our home. Live…"

As if in response to his voice, he heard Sandburg's respirations deepen, and his friend stirred weakly. Jim's heart clenched and he hated to feel so helpless, with little idea of how to ease his friend's suffering, as he saw Blair grimace in pain as he came back to consciousness. "Easy," Jim murmured softly. "Easy, Chief…"

Blair blinked, his gaze confused and unfocused as he stared up at the flickering shadows on the ceiling. Ellison tightened his grip on the kid's arm reassuringly and watched awareness return to Sandburg's eyes as his friend's gaze tracked toward him.

 _"J'm?"_ Blair sighed, agony deeply etched into the lines around his mouth and sunken eyes, huge in his pale, pinched, face.

"I'm right here," Ellison assured him. "What do you need?"

Sandburg blinked as he thought about the question, feeling fuzzy and disoriented. Pain, searing in its intensity was distracting him, demanding attention. _"Laudanum…no more than two drops…every six hours,"_ he mumbled, as if giving a prescription.

Ellison nodded and, having the medicine and a pitcher of water ready at hand, mixed up the analgesic and then supported Blair's head, helping his friend to drink from the cup he held to Sandburg's lips.

As the strong medicine eased the fire into a slow, remote burn, Sandburg sighed with relief. Focusing again on Jim, he said wearily, though more strongly, "You did everything right. Thanks."

When Jim's gaze broke away, Sandburg snorted weakly. "Stop it," he sighed. "Not your fault. Who were those guys?"

Jim shrugged. "Men with a grudge," he replied, his voice tight. "We don't know their names…"

Blair closed his eyes, weakly shaking his head. They might never know. Taking a breath, wincing a little, he returned his attention to Ellison. "Not over yet," he whispered, knowing the aftereffects of the wound could still kill him. "Give me water, maybe broth, whenever I'm awake. If a fever starts, tepid baths to bring it down. If the wound gets infected, may need to drain it - use sulfa, and some of the herbs Whispering Waters gave me." He paused, but his jaw tightened and he continued, "If the wound goes bad - use maggots to clean it out."

Ellison's lips thinned against a sudden stab of nausea as he involuntarily pictured the horror of that, but he nodded to signal he understood what to do. "You're going to be okay," he asserted as he brushed Blair's cheeks with the tips of his fingers. "You've beaten worse than this."

Sandburg smiled faintly, but it faded as he said solemnly with painful deliberation, "Regardless - whatever happens, don't blame yourself…I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

"I know," Ellison grated, not wanting to go there - never wanting this to happen again. "But - the price is too high…"

 _"No, 's not,"_ Blair asserted, but his voice was growing wispy, slurring, his eyelids blinking heavily. _"Jim, you'd do the same for me."_

Though he nodded, and was glad Sandburg knew that for a fact, Ellison really didn't want to talk anymore about it. To him, it sounded as if Blair was trying to say 'good-bye', trying to console him, and he didn't want that. Didn't want to think about the possibility that Sandburg might yet die.

"Shh," Jim urged, soothingly, to distract Blair from his worries about him. "No more talking. Just rest, Chief. Concentrate on getting better, okay?"

 _"'kay,"_ Sandburg sighed, exhausted, and allowed himself to drift into sleep.

* * *

_"Hot…'m so hot,"_ Sandburg muttered, thrashing feebly, barely conscious.

"I know, shhh, it's okay," Jim murmured back as he swabbed his partner's face gently with a cool, wet rag, and then lifted Sandburg's head as he held a cup of water to his lips. Once Blair had taken as much as he was going to, Ellison settled him back on the pillow and bent to again bathe his friend's body and limbs with the tepid water in the basin by the bed.

The fever had started to build about an hour after Blair had first wakened, flushing his hot, dry skin a dull red. For the past four hours, Ellison had been diligently, even tenderly, bathing Sandburg as he fought the fever, so far without much success. Blair moaned softly as though, even only semiconscious, he was trying to hide the pain. But, the kid's hands kept straying to the white bandage, stark against the dark hair that blanketed his chest, and it was clear how much he was suffering. Biting his lip, Jim wondered if he should follow Sandburg's orders and wait another hour to give him some laudanum. When Blair flinched, trying to curl on his side, groaning softly, Ellison made his decision and gave his friend more of the medicinal mixture. He couldn't stand to watch Sandburg suffering, not when he had the means at hand to dull the torment.

"How's he doing?" Simon rumbled, as he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his face.

Ellison shook his head as he lifted away the bandage to again check the wound for signs of the infection he could already smell. He winced when he saw slimy green pus leaking out of the reddened and raw incision. "Infection," he grunted as he straightened up. "He's been running a high fever."

"Damn," Banks sighed, as he stood and moved to stand beside Jim, to get a closer look at the kid. "Now what?"

Sighing as he rubbed the back of his neck, Jim replied, "He woke up a while ago - told me this might happen. I have to reopen the wound and clean it out."

Simon grimaced as he swallowed, but he turned away and set water to boil on the stove.

Joel was awake by the time everything was ready, and he held Blair down as Simon assisted Jim. Not that the kid put up much of a fight; he was too weak to do more than twitch and thrash ineffectually. They all wished they could have given him some ether, but they didn't know how much to use and were afraid of doing him harm if they just guessed.

Jim snipped open the sutures binding the wound, his nose wrinkling at the putrid smell. Swallowing, he cleaned it out, splashed in some whiskey that made Sandburg grunt and jerk violently in reaction. And then he dusted in the sulfa and some of the crushed herbs Whispering Waters had given Blair. He'd found them earlier, after Blair had said he might need them, when he'd searched Blair's desk for the deerskin sack. Once again he closed the now torn edges of the wound, sprinkled on more of the medicines and covered it with a linen pad and bandages.

Using the Indians' herbs had reminded him of the other small medicine bag in the sack. Once he washed his hands and arms, he went through to retrieve the one tied with the tiny wolf. Back in the infirmary, he gently slipped the leather thong around Sandburg's head so that the bag would lie on his chest.

"What's that?" Joel asked softly with a puzzled frown.

"The Indians gave us each one," Ellison explained as he moved to fill another bowl with tepid water; Blair's fever seemed hotter than ever. "They said it would give protection and strength."

"Ahh," Taggart reflected thoughtfully. "I've heard they have pretty powerful medicine. Can't hurt."

* * *

Though the others offered to help fight Blair's burgeoning fever, Jim refused to cede his role as Sandburg's caregiver. Having to reopen the wound had been hideous, his senses raging out of control so that his world was filled with the sight, sound and scent of Sandburg's suffering. But the infection was the enemy now, and Jim exerted his full capacity on doing all he could to defeat it. He reined in his senses with ruthless deliberation, forced them to his will - harnessed them to help him clean out the wound with meticulous care. And once the ravaged flesh had been again closed and bandaged, Ellison resumed his tireless bathing of Blair's hot, dry skin.

It sickened Jim to see Blair so helpless and vulnerable, scared him to think the kid might really be dying. But if this was the last service he could offer, the last stand he could make to save Blair's life, he sure wasn't going to share it with anyone else. Blair had taken the bullet for him; now all he could do was fight back, with every scrap of energy and tenderness he had in his being to help Sandburg cling to life.

Over and over, he bathed Blair's face, gently cooling his fevered brow. Countless times, he carefully drew the damp cloth over Sandburg's throat and shoulders, his thickly matted chest, arms and hands. With unaccustomed tenderness, he attended to Blair's abdomen, hips and legs, his touch focused to feel the fever, so that he knew whether the tawny skin was hotter or cooler for his efforts. It was an invasion of Blair's person, to touch him with such familiarity, but one Sandburg had granted to him when he'd said the tepid baths might be required. It was a trust Blair had given him, granting dominion over his helpless body - turning to Jim in his need. It broke Jim's heart, to see him so ill, so weak - so much in danger of slipping away. But Jim wouldn't let go. Literally. He kept his hands on Sandburg's body, holding onto his life with resolute determination, cherishing in the only way he could, soothing as best he was able.

It was another two hours before the fever finally broke, drenching Sandburg and the cot he was lying on with sweat. Jim and Simon cleaned and dried his skin and, since it was easier than trying to remake the bed with him in it, Ellison just carried him to another that Joel had made up with fresh, clean sheets.

Dawn had long since come and gone, and soon neighbours started showing up, to express concern or to offer help. Maisie brought fresh bread and a stew for the men, as well as a pot of chicken broth. "It's been thickened with moldy bread and then strained," she said diffidently. "I recall Doc said making it that way could beat infection." Delores McCready also showed up, bringing a jug of juice she'd squeezed from crushed apples. "He always seemed partial to the apples from our tree," she explained, her voice tight with emotion. Sarah Sloane arrived, insisting they give her the laundry she knew needed doing. Her eyes filled with tears when she saw the massive, ugly, brown bloodstains, but she swallowed and carried it all away. LeeAnn Raymond brought a pot of the willow-bark tea and a jar of honey to sweeten it. Megan Conner came by with an armload of fresh sheets and towels, as well as strips of good quality cotton she'd ripped up to make extra bandages. Henri took on the care of all their animals, shaking his head when they offered to pay him for his time and supplies of hay and oats. Sam and Angus dropped in, and later, Johnny and Dan, all wondering if there was anything they could do to help. Some children, quiet and solemn, brought a bunch of wildflowers in a mason jar; more broth and casseroles arrived, until the counter in the kitchen was overflowing with filled bowls and jars. They were all very worried about Sandburg - and all very relieved to know he was alive and holding his own. "I'll pray for him," was a constant murmur when they took their leave.

Joel and Simon took turns visiting with the folks who dropped in, thanking them all for their help and support, but Jim remained by Blair's bedside with one hand firmly grasped around Sandburg's arm. The big lawman looked utterly exhausted as he slumped forward in the chair, his gaze locked on Blair's face. Finally, when Jim again refused anything at noon, probably too tired and worried to eat, Simon figured the Sheriff's vigil had gone on long enough.

"You need to get some rest, Jim," he said kindly but firmly as he stood behind Ellison. When Jim started to shake his head in mute protest, Banks continued, "You know I'm right. You won't do Blair any good if you drive yourself into exhaustion. Go lie down on the cot over there. Joel and I'll watch him, and call you if there's any change."

Reluctantly, Jim nodded and stood. With a last long look, he turned away and laid down - falling asleep short minutes later.

"He's taking this hard," Joel murmured softly as he gazed at the sleeping sheriff.

"Uh-huh," Simon grunted. "S'pose any of us would, if our best friend got shot by a bullet meant for us."

Taggart frowned at the heavy tone and shot a sharp look at his partner. The men who'd come into town had been looking for Jim **_and_** Simon, as well as Jed, for that matter, who was back at the ranch. "This wasn't any more your fault than Jim's, Simon," Joel said then.

Banks sighed as he ran a hand over his face. "I guess I know that," he muttered. "But - I keep thinkin', when we knew there was likely to be trouble, we should've told the kid to wait for us here."

Joel snorted. "Right. And I'm sure he would have sat back like a good a little boy and quietly watched all us big, tough, men go off to deal with the bad guys," he drawled sarcastically.

Banks had the grace to smile softly at the unlikelihood of that ever happening. No, all they would have managed to do would have been to insult the young man, and make him remind them, as he had about riding out after the rustlers last spring, that he was the Deputy Sheriff and he had a job to do. "You're right," Simon finally conceded, and then sighed again. "God, I hope he'll be okay."

"Blair's tougher than he looks, Simon," Joel consoled, thinking of the ugly scars on the kid's back, knowing what they represented. "He's made it through the worst of it. Now, he just needs rest."

* * *

Blair slept through the remainder of that day and the whole of the night, waking only briefly and groggily, his muted moans of distress indicating his need for water, tea or broth and laudanum. His caretakers took turns watching over him, and carefully helped him drink the fluids and medicine before smoothing his blanket as they encouraged him to go back to sleep. Jim became hopeful that his wound was healing; the reddened skin was fading to a more healthy pink with only faintly bloodied clear drainage. Though Sandburg seemed marginally more alert when he roused for brief periods the next day, he was still frighteningly pale and weak - too weak to make it out to the privy, so he resignedly used the porcelain urinal Ellison handed to him. Mostly, he slept another day and a half.

The next afternoon, Jim was watching over him when Blair sniffed and lifted a hand to rub his face, blinking and yawning as he looked around with clearer, more alert eyes.

"You finally deciding to wake up?" Jim teased with a slight grin, relieved to see Sandburg looking a little more like himself, and less like a limp rag doll.

"Uh, yeah, I think," Sandburg muttered and then yawned again. "How long've I been out of it?"

"Almost four days," Ellison told him as he poured a cup of water and then leaned forward to support Blair's head to help him drink.

"Ah, that's good, thanks," Sandburg sighed as he settled back against the pillow. "There anything to eat?"

Jim laughed a little hysterically at that, close to weeping with the sure knowledge, now, that Sandburg really was on the mend, causing Blair to give him a puzzled look. "Chief, we've got enough food in the kitchen to feed an army! Every woman in town has been dropping off chicken broth, beef and vegetable soup, stews, casseroles, bowls of eggs, slabs of bacon, fresh bread, four different kinds of cheeses, juice, willow-bark tea and the kids have been coming by with cookies and cake, 'cause that's what they like when they're sick, or so they tell me."

"You're kidding?" Sandburg smiled, amazed by the largesse and touched by the consideration.

"No, I'm not," Jim grinned. "And you've got jars full of wildflowers back in your office, also courtesy of the kids, the laundry has been done, twice, and we've been given more sheets and towels from the hotel." His eyes softening, Jim squeezed Blair's shoulder as he continued soberly, "You've got a lot of friends in this town, Blair. They all care about you - and they've **_all_** been over at the church, praying for you, even Silas and Moe, if you can believe it, but I think Delores and Lucinda hogtied them and dragged them there."

Blair's breath hitched at that, and he looked away as he blinked. "They're good people," he said quietly.

"So, Doc, what can you handle? A bowl of plain broth or do you want something more substantial?" Jim asked as he stood.

"Uh, I think a little soup, maybe with some bread and a small hunk of cheese," Sandburg replied. "Oh, and some juice and a mug of the tea."

"Coming right up," Jim saluted as he headed to the kitchen. He made it from the infirmary to the privacy of the hall before his legs let go and he sank to the floor, curled forward as he tried to hold his tears inside. Oh God, Blair was going to live, going to be strong again and whole. Bowing his head, Jim thanked a God that he was beginning to believe in again, for the gift of Blair's life. For long moments, he trembled with overwhelming relief. But, conscious that Simon or Joel could happen upon him at any time, Jim finally wiped his face, sniffing as he pulled himself back up onto his feet. With a lighter heart, and a smile that wouldn't quit as joy bubbled within his chest, he continued to the kitchen to heat up the soup and make the tea - Blair would live, and now it was time for the happier task of helping him regain his strength.

Joel and Simon wandered in as Blair was eating, enthusiastically pleased to see him so much stronger, his colour more natural, and in good appetite. He'd mend, of that they were now certain. After visiting for a while they took their leave, explaining that it was time they got back to the ranch. Sandburg thanked them for all their help, but then yawned again. He didn't protest when Jim ordered him to rest, and he napped through the rest of the day and into the evening.

When he next woke, Jim was again sitting in the chair by his bed, the oil lamp glowing softly on the small table beside him.

"Don't you have something else to do, Sheriff?" he teased drowsily.

"Nope," Ellison quipped back, though his voice was quiet. "Thought I'd give up keeping the peace and take up nursing the sick and infirm."

Sandburg snorted, but he studied his friend closely. "You look exhausted, Jim," he observed with concern. "You should rest. I'm doing all right."

Shrugging, Ellison replied, "I'm fine," as he leaned forward and almost unconsciously brushed Blair's hair back from his friend's brow and cheek. "I'm really glad to see you're so much better. You scared me, Chief."

Sandburg's eyes glowed with affection as he smiled softly, "I'm better 'cause of you. I know the…the surgery was hard, but you saved my life, Jim."

"Makes us even," Ellison replied, his voice tight with emotion. He bowed his head in silence for a moment, and then looked up to meet Blair's eyes, his own troubled and dark with apology. "About the fight we had. I was wrong. I shouldn't have doubted you…I do trust you, Sandburg. More'n I've ever trusted anyone in my life."

Blair's eyes softened as he nodded. "Thank you," he murmured as he lifted his hand to grip Jim's wrist, accepting the apology. "Now, go to bed before you fall over. Doctor's orders."

* * *

It was a month before Sandburg was strong enough to pretend he was back to normal - not that he wasn't recovered, but he knew it could take up to a year to attain normal energy levels after a major operation like the one he'd had. As for the ragged scar, he smiled whenever he saw it - the ugliness of it didn't bother him because it was a tangible reminder of how Jim had worked so hard to save his life. When the others wondered if there'd be any problems living without a spleen, he just shrugged and told them it was pretty useless. No reason to have them all worrying that he would be more susceptible to infections from now on - he wasn't about to stop being a doctor and caring for those who were sick, regardless of the risks that posed for him. Doctors all knew it was a crapshoot - that they could always catch something and possibly even die as a result; if they worried about it, they wouldn't be doctors.

Blair very much appreciated everyone's concern on his behalf, and the attentive care he'd received, especially from Jim. But a little smothering goes a long way, and he'd grown restive under the constant preoccupation with his health and wellbeing.

"I'm fine!" he insisted with a laugh when Jim wasn't sure he should go back to accompanying Ellison on his evening rounds. "A walk will be good for me. I need the exercise."

It was a typically rowdy Friday night, and there was no way he was letting Jim head out alone. For the past few weeks, Simon had come into town on the weekends to help out, but he'd sent in word with one of his hands that he'd banged up his knee when a colt he was training to the saddle had thrown him. Joel and Rafe were gone with the herd being driven to the stockyard at the railhead in Wichita, so they weren't available either. The young ranch hand who'd brought in the message shyly offered to help out; but he was just a fresh-faced kid, likely no more than sixteen years old, and Ellison told him not to worry about it when he thanked him for his offer and for bringing Simon's note.

Now Ellison was contemplating his partner, not happy about Blair joining him for the night's patrol. He hadn't been well all that long - and he could get hurt.

Sandburg had gotten pretty good at reading Jim's silences, because his best friend's unconscious expressions and posture were so indicative of what he was thinking or feeling. "Jim," he said quietly as he moved closer to grip his friend's arm, "you can't just pack me away in cotton to keep me safe, you know. I won't let you."

Jim shook his head and shrugged. "I just don't want you hurt again, that's all," he muttered.

"I know, and I appreciate that, but we worked together for almost a year before those gunmen rode into town, and nothing happened. You watch out for me, I know you do - and I'm careful," Sandburg replied reasonably. "It was a fluke, Jim…"

"It might have been a lot of things," Ellison cut in sharply as he looked down at his best friend, "but it was no 'fluke'. You jumped in front of that bullet! Don't try to pretend you didn't, because I **_know_** better. And you'd do it again, dammit!"

"Jim, Jim…I know it's hard to come to grips with the idea that someone else cares about you, but get used to it, big guy. I'm your backup, your deputy, your doctor and your best friend - **_of course_** , I'm going to try to keep you from getting hurt! That's my job! Now, come on, we've got rounds to make," Blair mocked gently, his tone teasing, but his eyes very serious. Patting Ellison on the arm consolingly, he just walked on out to the street, starting the rounds and assuming the sheriff would follow.

Jim heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. "Some job," he muttered. "It's not like you get paid much for it. Nowhere near what you're worth."

But he followed, catching up and looping an arm around his friend's shoulder, to pull him into a quick sideways hug. Sandburg grinned as he reached up and around to pat Jim's back. Then they split apart, back to business and alert as they ambled along the boardwalk, watching and listening for trouble.

* * *

Skirmishes in the Indian conflicts erupted with increasing regularity as the summer drew toward fall. Throughout the western territories, the indigenous people continued to strike back against the onslaught of settlers and, particularly, the building of the railroad because it would only bring more and more settlers to till the land, to build towns and cities. It was a hard, frightening time - there was little tolerance or moderation on either side. But though the people in Bitterwood Creek, as well as the farms and ranches round about, kept a wary eye out for surprise attacks, for some reason the battles and skirmishes, the raids and massacres seemed always to happen somewhere else.

From time to time, US Cavalry soldiers rode in to restock their supplies, because it was the one town in that part of Kansas that still seemed to have their supply routes intact, and lots of produce and beef to sell. Folks in town liked to hear the latest news from them, so it wasn't uncommon for any number of people to gather around the General Store during their sojourns and, inevitably, someone would recall their own experiences with Indians in the area…though all admitted it had been strangely quiet, Praise the Lord, since the past winter when the doctor had been taken captive. But, by the Grace of God, he'd managed to escape and their brave Sheriff had found him and brought him back home. The soldiers would nod, pay for the supplies, load them up and head on out of town to return to the business of chasing down renegades.

However, usually it was just the supply sergeant and maybe a corporal to help manage the packhorses who came into town, so it caused quite a stir one day when the whole troop rode in toward the end of August. Jim sauntered out of his office to see if there was any trouble brewing in the area and, though he wasn't surprised to see Major Rutherford dismounting, he wasn't all that overjoyed to see the man again.

"Major," Jim acknowledged when the officer stepped up to the boardwalk. "You find those Indians Sandburg escaped from last winter?"

"No, Ellison, we didn't," Rutherford replied tightly as he gazed up and down the street. "However, my men heard some interesting rumours when they last came in for supplies." His cold gray gaze came back to meet Jim's eyes.

"Really?" the Sheriff replied, holding the stare. "Well, you know rumours. Can't usually put much credence in them."

"Uh-huh," the Cavalry Officer grunted, his gaze shifting to the Doctor's Office next door. "Seems the good Dr. Sandburg has been known to aid and abet wounded hostiles in the past - rumour has it that's why the Indians let him go…"

"He escaped," Jim cut in sharply.

Rutherford chuckled mirthlessly. "Now, you don't think I ever really believed that story, did you? Escaped? With an Indian pony and a rich deerskin robe?" he responded sarcastically. "Too farfetched. And it begs the question of why they didn't kill him in the first place. My men heard he was out at some farm when they attacked, and one brave stopped another savage from killing him, _and_ the people he was with. All sounds pretty friendly to me."

"What do you want, Rutherford?" Jim asked mildly, though he was having a hard time keeping his temper in check. Everyone in town knew about the Indian Sandburg had treated months ago. Though they'd never told anyone, not even Simon, about Swift Eagle's promise to leave their immediate area alone, folks speculated, like folks always would. Raids and skirmishes were going on all over the west…except around Bitterwood Creek.

"Well, I'd like to speak with Dr. Sandburg again. If there's a question of him giving succor to the enemies of our nation, well, that would make him a traitor, wouldn't it?" the Major drawled, his eyes glinting with malice. "And I believe you remember what happens to traitors, don't you, Ellison?"

Jim's jaw tightened as he studied Rutherford with all the warmth he'd show to a sidewinder. "Dr. Sandburg is a hero, Rutherford. He's also a doctor; one folks think works miracles. I'd suggest you be very careful about suggesting he's any kind of traitor."

"I've heard that Sandburg wasn't alone when he cared for that renegade," Rutherford continued, unfazed either by Ellison's hostility or his warning.

Just then, Sandburg loped across the street. He'd been over at the McCready place, checking on one of the boys who had a case of the mumps.

"What's going on?" he asked as he joined them. Looking from Jim to Rutherford, he nodded in brief, cool acknowledgement. "Major Rutherford."

"Seems the Major has heard some rumours about the help you gave to that Indian awhile ago," Jim replied stiffly, "and wonders if there's any connection with them taking you later to their camp. Apparently, he still has some questions about your escape - and has some doubts about your loyalty."

"Oh, really?" Blair replied, as if he were startled by the officer's suspicions. Turning to the Major, he said as he waved toward the building next door, "Maybe you'd like to step into my office and we can discuss your concerns. Jim, were you busy or did you want to join us?"

"I was just working on some reports," Ellison replied with a speculative look at his best friend - Blair seemed unusually calm about what was going down. "They can keep."

The three men strode the few paces to the entrance to the doctor's office and residence where Blair led them into his office. Waving them both to chairs, he sat behind his desk. "Go ahead, Major. What's on your mind?" he asked earnestly.

"I heard you, and Ellison here, gave aid to a renegade a few months ago," Rutherford replied. "It's contrary to this nation's interests to be giving succor to the enemy. I'm sure you know that, Doctor."

"Yes, I do," Blair replied steadily. "But, while it's true that we came upon an Indian male almost a _year_ ago, actually, there was nothing to suggest he was a renegade of any kind. It looked like he might have been hurt in a hunting accident, though it's hard to say for sure, since he didn't appear to speak English and neither of us speaks his language. I patched him up and he left the next day."

"Hunting accident?" Rutherford jeered. "Hunting innocent victims for their scalps, maybe."

Sandburg sighed, but he leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. "Pure supposition, Major. He was alone, posed no threat, certainly did not display any aggressive behaviour when we found him, and Jim kept watch on him the whole time he was here, in the event that he did prove to be hostile. He had a bad gash along his side, no way to tell how he'd gotten it, and no reason for me to believe him a threat of any kind. I'm a doctor, Major. It's my job to treat those who are injured or afflicted, regardless of race or creed. I took an oath on that, and I do my best to live up to it."

"Why didn't they kill you when they first raided that farm?" Rutherford demanded abruptly.

Sandburg leaned back and shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine - I sure thought they were going to. Frankly, I imagined that they planned to torture me slowly and then collect my scalp," he replied soberly, with an expression that revealed some of the fear he'd felt at the time. "I don't mind confessing that it was a terrifying experience."

Rutherford studied Sandburg for a moment, while Jim remained silent as he sat back in his chair, letting Blair handle this, if he could. "Tell me how you got away," the Major asked quietly, his tone suspicious.

Leaning back, squinting toward the ceiling as if he was trying to recall the exact chain of events, Blair replied, "I was taken to a tent and tied - this was after we'd ridden for the night and a good part of the next day. God, I was frozen - I hadn't been wearing my coat when they took me - and stiff from having been tied to the pony after I'd tried to escape earlier. Later, one brought me some bannock and meat, and after I'd eaten, he took me back to their latrine area. I figured it would be my best chance, so I pretended to stumble and when he grabbed me, I came up hard with a fist under his chin, knocking him out. It was dark, and no one else seemed to be paying any attention…we were out behind the ring of tents. I slipped away, and took one of the horses."

"And the deerskin cape?" Rutherford demanded.

"I was wearing it - it had been in the tent, and I'd wrapped myself in it to get warm. I was still wearing it over my shoulders when I was escorted out back," Blair replied easily. "It was cold, Major, as you might recall."

"What happened then?"

"I led the horse some distance away, and then managed to mount him," Blair replied, then shook his head and grinned softly, as if in wry memory. "Not easy getting up on an unsaddled horse, is it? Anyway, I kicked him and he ran. I didn't have a fine clue where I was going, only that I wanted to get as far away as fast as I could." Shifting his gaze toward Jim, he smiled as he continued, "I cannot begin to describe to you the relief I felt when Jim found me - I doubt I could have survived out there alone for much longer."

Rutherford looked from Sandburg to Ellison, and saw an answering smile on the lawman's face. "I told you he gets turned around in the middle of nowhere when everything looks the same," the Sheriff said indulgently.

"Yes," the officer snapped, "so I recall. It was fortunate that you were able to find him 'in the middle of nowhere'."

"Yes, it was," Ellison replied, his voice and eyes cold as he stared Rutherford down.

The major snorted and shook his head, knowing there was no way to prove his theory, but still certain he was right, nonetheless. "Can either of you explain how Bitterwood Creek and the area hereabouts is so fortunate as to not have been attacked since Sandburg was taken?"

Jim shrugged negligently. "Just lucky, maybe…"

But Blair cut in, "You know, I've been thinking about that. People around here are really scared of another attack and, as Jim says, we've been lucky. Who knows, maybe helping that one Indian last year meant something, after all. Maybe he and his people were grateful." He shrugged as he gave Rutherford a hard look, "But, then, you wouldn't expect that of savage hostiles, would you?"

"Look, I know damned well that you're feeding me a pack of lies," Rutherford replied, provoked by the contempt in Blair's eyes and voice.

"I think that's about enough," Jim cut in, standing. "You've asked your questions and gotten the only answers you're going to hear. You've got no grounds for harassing our town's doctor. I suggest you be on your way."

Rutherford had stood as Jim did, the two of them facing one another like raging bulls. Blair remained seated, but interjected in a calming tone, "Gentlemen, if we're finished here, I have some work to do."

Throwing him an angry look as he pulled on his gloves, Rutherford replied, his voice low with menace, "We're finished for now, Dr. Sandburg - but we'll be watching you."

Sandburg quirked a brow as he observed sarcastically, "Things must be quieting down if you've got time to watch a simple country doctor, Major, but you go right ahead if it makes you feel more secure."

Jim quickly stepped between the two men and pointed Rutherford to the door. When they got outside, they discovered that a sizable representation of the town citizenry had showed up, led by Silas McCready and his man, Moe. "There any trouble here, Sheriff?" Silas called out with a belligerent look at the military officer.

"No, I don't think so," Jim replied, though he wondered why McCready and his lot were up to. "The Major just wanted to ask Doc a few questions about that Indian he treated a while ago, and being taken later from the Wilkinsons' place."

"Uh-huh," Silas rumbled. "I heerd that's why the whole Cavalry was in town. Stupid. Ya think there'd be more to do than worry about one man's experiences with the savages. Why, ya might even think, maybe, that Doc weren't trusted - just 'cause he treated that Injun last year. Cain't say as I was happy about that, but Doc's a good man, and he takes his doctorin' seriously. This town's real glad we got him back, and wouldn't want _anythin'_ to happen to him." The men behind Silas mumbled their agreement.

McCready might have been talking as if to the Sheriff, but his eyes had never left Rutherford. The message was pretty clear. If anyone wanted to mess with their doctor, they'd have to deal with the whole town.

Rutherford looked out over the gathering of tense men, and then nodded as he made his decision. Sandburg might be a renegade in his own right, a traitor, but he wasn't worth tackling the entire town, not when there wasn't any proof. But that didn't mean this was over. He'd given due warning; he'd be watching Sandburg, and Ellison, too, for that matter. One day these despicable men would pay the price for traitorously consorting with the enemy, he'd make certain of that. It was only a matter of time. Coldly, he turned to Jim and touched the brim of his hat in a sarcastic salute as he said stonily, "Seems your doctor has a lot of friends. Let's hope he deserves them."

With that, he wheeled around to stride to his horse. Mounting up, he called out to his men and they cantered out of town.

"Doc alright?" Silas asked Jim as they watched the armed troop leave.

"Uh-huh," Jim drawled as he turned to McCready with a slight grin. "No offence, Silas, but I wouldn't have figured you to be one of Doc's cheerleaders."

McCready chewed on the wad of tobacco in his cheek and then spat toward the street. "He's done right by my family, and the folks in this here town," Silas drawled. "T'be honest, I figure he's worth more to us than the good will of a bunch'a soldiers who never seem to get anywhere until it's too late anyway." Looking down the street, he continued, "Figures the cavalry noticed we ain't been attacked 'round here for months now. Makes some sense that they'd suspect Doc of somehow makin' a deal with the savages." Turning back to Jim, he said, "We don't rightly care if he did or didn't. But we reckon helpin' that brave last fall did us all a good turn. S'good enough for us."

With that, he waved to the men accompanying him and they all strode down to the saloon, probably to talk about how proud they were for having chased the Cavalry out of town. Nobody was going to mess with their doctor, not when he was the only one within more than a hundred miles.

Jim shook his head as he went back inside and ambled to the office. Hanging his hat on a hook by the door, he sank down in the chair at the end of Sandburg's desk. "Seems like you've got a fan club, Junior."

Blair smiled as he laid down his pen. "Yeah, so I heard. Who would have thought McCready'd ever go out of his way on my account?"

"Who would have ever thought you could lie like a trooper?" Jim shot back. "I never figured you for one who could tell a tall tale with such an innocent face."

Snickering, Blair sat back and pushed his hair back behind his ears. "Yeah, well, most of it was true, and that's the trick with a good lie." Sobering, he swallowed as he continued, "I don't make a habit of lying, but I can when it's for the right reasons. I'm more useful here than facing down a firing squad. And, if I'd gone down, he'd've taken you, too. I wasn't about to have that happen, not after you went after me and brought me back home."

"I'm not complainin', Sunshine," Jim drawled with an approving grin, very proud of the kid. "I was just surprised, is all."

* * *

The hot summer finally broke, the earlier sunsets and cooler winds blowing in off the prairie warning that fall was around the corner. September arrived, signaling the official end of summer, and the kids all started back to school, most of them grumbling every step of the way, though they had to admit, their new teacher wasn't too bad - not like Miss Bascome, but okay. Marnie, Angus' oldest girl, had taken over the role of schoolmarm the spring before, after Nellie had been murdered. She was still struggling a bit with her new role, but she enjoyed working with the children, and they responded ever more positively to her as they settled back into the familiar routines. Leaves turned golden and russet, some a bright blaze of crimson, but had not yet fallen. The dry air smelled crisp with that smoky tang of autumn, and the sun was still warm on the face. The annual fall harvest was well underway, the homesteaders humbly grateful for the continuing fair weather.

But though the season was changing, the business in town hadn't slowed down any. If anything, it was busier, with the farmers bringing in their produce, and heavy wagons of grain being hauled to the nearby mill on the river. Drifters and gamblers continued to wander into town, the stagecoaches still rolled through, dropping off some folks and picking up others who were moving on, or going to visit relatives back east. On weekends, fistfights and sudden drunken brawls were still a common occurrence, but it was mostly routine, nothing of any real concern. Blair was gratified that his people all seemed in pretty good health and, except for the occasional broken arm, wrenched back or the routine birthing, which he loved because he got such a kick over helping new life into the world, he didn't have a whole lot to do.

He and Jim had gotten closer since the summer, easier together and yet also very much enjoying their friendship, not taking it for granted as maybe they had, unconsciously. Near-death experiences tend to remind folks of their fragility and the vulnerability of life. Jim stopped bitching about the endless tests, and made no further comments about the notes that Blair kept - except non-verbal ones, only they weren't resentful anymore. If anything, he'd look at the notes with a kind of dread and then would turn away, as if denying their very existence; he knew now they'd only be used if something ever happened to Blair - and he never wanted that day to come.

Blair was out of town - helping Sadie Wilmington's fifth child into the world - when three men got off the stage and carried their carpetbags to the hotel. Two looked like they might be sons of the tall, erect, older man, the way they fell in behind him, deferred to him and shared similar sandy-brown, straight hair, odd amber eyes and thin mouths. Megan welcomed them to her establishment as they signed the hotel register and learned they were just passing through, only planning to be in town for a night or two. Glancing down at the register as she handed them their two room keys, the older man having requested a separate room, she smiled as she said, "Mr. Ralston, I hope you and your sons enjoy your time in Bitterwood Creek."

He smiled in return, though his cold eyes gave her an inward shiver, as he replied with a warm Southern drawl, "Oh, ah expect we shall, madam. Thank you."

The three men kept to themselves mostly, though they ambled along the boardwalk later in the day, pausing briefly to read the note on the door of the Doctor's Office that indicated, in case of emergency, he was out at the Wilkinson farm but expected to be back the next afternoon for regular office hours. They sauntered on to the livery stable, and then back to the hotel for an early supper in the small dining room beside the reception desk. There wasn't anything about them that was overtly threatening, but they carried an air of something unwholesome. Maybe it was the cold, amber eyes they all shared. Maybe the slight sneer on their lips as if they felt themselves superior. Whatever it was, it made Megan uneasy and she kept an eye on them.

So she noticed when they were up very early the next morning, leaving without any breakfast, as if they were in a hurry to get someplace. She went out the front entrance, curious to see where they were going. Cocking her head as she watched them walk away, she frowned, thinking they almost looked like they were marching, backs so stiff and resolute, their strides evenly matched. When they disappeared into the livery stable, she shrugged. Maybe they knew folks in the area and that's why they were staying in Bitterwood Creek for a couple of days. They weren't obliged to tell her their business. Having work to do, she went back inside without waiting to see which way they went.

But the men, and their odd, uncomfortable manner, continued to wear on her mind. Finally deciding to give in to her misgivings, though she thought she was maybe being silly, she set off to the Sheriff's Office.

"Jim," she said as she entered, a slight frown between her brows, "I may just be being foolish, but there're some visitors staying at the hotel that, I don't know, seem odd."

"Odd?" he echoed as he looked up with an expression of mild interest. "Odd how?"

Crossing her arms, she shrugged a little. "I don't know, exactly. Cold? Aloof - act like they're better than everyone else. It's a man and his two sons. They stand and walk as if they were military officers, but they aren't in uniform. Likely because they're Southerners…I'd guess the father, at least, fought in the War. I suppose it sounds crazy - they just gave me the creeps. Anyway, they were up early and went to the livery stable. Maybe they're just visiting someone…but…I've got a bad feeling about them."

Jim thought about it. There was nothing in what Megan had told him to suggest the men meant any harm - but she was sharp, and if she'd picked up a sense of threat about them, then maybe they did mean trouble. "What's their name?" he asked.

"Ralston. He's…" she replied.

 ** _"What?"_** he snapped and then surged up from his seat, his expression thunderous as he grabbed his hat from the peg on the wall by the desk.

"Ralston, Jeremiah, and his sons, Joshua and Job," she elaborated, wondering at his sudden reaction. "You know them?" she asked with increasing concern as he swore under his breath.

"Oh yeah," he grunted as he passed her on his way out. "Thanks, Megan," he called back over his shoulder as he loped around the corner and down the alley to his stable. He quickly saddled Lobo, and mounted before cantering over to the livery stable.

Meanwhile, Megan, even more curious and now seriously alarmed by his reaction, jogged to the livery stable to ask Henri if he knew anything more about the three men, or where they'd gone. When Jim clattered into the yard a scant few minutes later, he found Brown saddling up his own horse and Megan busy filling a saddlebag with extra rifle cartridges.

"Which direction did they take?" Ellison called from horseback as Megan threw on the saddlebags and Henri mounted, his rifle already in its sheath on the saddle.

"They asked for directions to the Wilkinsons' farm," Henri called back. "They're after the Doc, aren't they?"

"'Fraid so," Jim replied brusquely, wheeling Lobo around. "You stay here - they're dangerous."

"That's why I'm comin' with you," Brown replied staunchly. The blacksmith hadn't appreciated the uppity, superior manner of his most recent customers; hadn't at all liked being called 'boy' in that condescending tone. He'd read the cruel callousness in their eyes and had suspected they were bad news, for all they'd claimed to be relatives of the Wilkinsons. If they were after Doc, then the young man was in deep trouble. And Doc had been real good to Henri and his family - he wasn't about to stand back and let men like that hurt Sandburg.

Not having time to argue, Jim nodded and kicked Lobo into a fast gallop, Henri on his heels as they lit out of town.

* * *

Blair was tired but happy as he set out from the Wilkinson farm. Sadie had delivered another fine, strapping, baby boy just before dawn, and he'd've left sooner but Jake had insisted he stay for a good, hearty breakfast, the only payment the proud farmer could really afford - that and a promise to bring in some preserves and a supply of flour, once Sadie was on her feet again. So, he was well fed, and well-satisfied with life as he hummed softly, looking forward to getting home and maybe even a couple of hours of shut-eye.

He was about a mile from town when three riders charged out of the shelter of the trees by the creek, quickly surrounding him.

"What the…" Blair called out, startled more than worried - until he recognized the older man. **_"Ralston!"_** he exclaimed, and then looked quickly at the other two men, his stomach twisting in unconscious revulsion at how much they looked like their dead brother, Jonas.

"Thought I'd forget you, huh, Jew?" Ralston, Senior, sneered.

"No, I just kinda hoped they'd thrown you in prison and tossed away the key," Sandburg snapped back, his voice level as he kept a wary eye on them. This wasn't good, and he knew it.

The ex-Colonel of the Masonville prison camp laughed, a harsh, cruel bark. "In the interests of peace and respect for brothers in uniform, officers were forgiven their misguided rebellion and afforded the opportunity to either retain their commissions or retire honourably." He spat into the dirt, a gesture of contempt. "As if I'd ever wear the blue."

"How'd you find me?" Sandburg asked, his voice tight as he tried to control his fear. They hadn't drawn their guns yet, but he had no doubt of what they intended - there was no way they were going to let him get away alive.

"Took me a while," Ralston replied philosophically. "I tracked you to the hospital they took you to, but just missed you. Heard you'd headed back to Maryland - but the folks there don't think much of you, do they, boy?"

Blair looked away at the reference to Eliza and her husband, Lucas, his former partner. Ralston laughed again, vastly enjoying himself. "Anyway, I lost your trail for a time, but your local little newspaper is quite a help. Ran across a story about the brave doctor of Bitterwood Creek, who'd first come into town to help folks quarantined with diphtheria and who didn't have a doctor to care for them. And then he nearly got himself killed, saving the Sheriff's life - because it seems he's also the town's Deputy Sheriff. Very warm-hearted story - got picked up by the national papers. And here I am."

"Yeah, here you are, with your two fine sons," Blair returned sarcastically as he eyed the younger Ralstons with disgust. "Take after Jonas, do they?"

Rage filled Ralston's face as he shouted, "Don't you talk to me about Jonas, you no-good murdering Jew! You should have died more'n two years ago!"

Blair looked from Ralston to his sons, and decided he'd be damned if he was just going to sit around and let them torture him, because that's what they'd do, before they killed him. So, he gave Butternut a sharp, sudden kick, yelling, **_"Go, girl!"_** as he bent low over her neck and burst past Ralston. Shots rang out, and Butternut's right foreleg jumped; she stumbled, her sudden speed making her crash to the ground. Blair rolled free, and was scrambling to his feet as the three riders thundered up to surround him and his horse, their guns leveled at him. Swallowing, he turned to check on Butternut but she was already climbing back up onto her feet, her grazed right foreleg dribbling blood from a deep gouge. _"Easy, girl,"_ Sandburg murmured, reaching up to stroke her neck. _"You're okay."_

Ralston snorted and waved his gun toward the creek. "Get moving - that way." And then he swiveled his Colt toward the wounded horse. "Or I'll kill your horse."

Swallowing, Blair gave a jerky nod and, his shoulders stiff, he turned and walked toward the trees. Joshua Ralston caught up Butternut's reins and tugged her along behind as the three mounted men paced him until they had arrived under the cool shadows of the gloriously golden trees.

They had fun roughing him up a bit, but that wasn't what they had planned for the main attraction. They wanted him conscious, and very aware - wanted him to die slowly. So though they bruised his ribs and laid open his face with a cut above one brow and a split lip, they exercised restraint and kept their knives in their sheaths.

"Let's do it, Pa," Job urged with eager cruelty sparking in his eyes. "I want to see him kick."

"All right, son," Ralston agreed with a cold smile. "Go bring his horse over here."

Joshua held Blair tight, an arm around the smaller man's throat, squeezing viciously, while Ralston bound Sandburg's wrists together behind his back. And then the older man looped a rope around his neck, drawing it tight.

Blair swallowed hard. He'd not said a word, nor made a sound, as they'd beaten him - hadn't wanted to give them the satisfaction of knowing their blows had hurt. But he knew that no matter how hard he tried, he wouldn't be able to stop his body's fight for air as he slowly strangled to death, or the ugly rictus of death by asphyxiation, his face blue and tongue swollen out of his mouth, his bowels loosened as the sphincter gave way. It galled him to know that they'd enjoy the spectacle \- and made him nauseous to think of his friends, of Jim, eventually finding him swinging from the end of a rope.

They hauled him to his horse and lifted him up into the saddle. Ralston threw the end of the long rope up over a limb that would do nicely, and then tied it off around the tree trunk so tightly that Blair was pulled up stiffly in the saddle. He blinked and swallowed, his jaw tight and his lips compressed to a thin, determined line. He was wondering if he fell a certain way, if he could break his neck even though the knot wasn't designed to do that.

Ralston came to stand in front of Butternut as he looked up at Sandburg and said with formal relish, "For the heinous crime of murdering my fine son, Jonas Ralston, I hereby sentence to you to hang by the neck until you are dead. Do you have any last words?"

"Go to hell, Ralston," Blair grated, his eyes flashing with defiance. "And take your two misbegotten sons with you - may you all burn there with your 'fine son, Jonas'."

Ralston's eyes flashed with fury, but he held it in check. Stepping out of the way, he nodded to Joshua, who smacked Butternut's haunch hard, as he yelled out, **_"Hiya!"_** \- and the startled horse bolted.

Blair grunted as the rope jerked tight, strangling him as he dangled four feet off the ground.

But then a shot rang out - and the rope snapped, dropping him, choking, to the grass.

The three Ralstons whirled, shocked by the sudden turn of events, their weapons instantly in their hands, firing toward the two men thundering down upon them. Jim's gun cracked again, and one of the boys cried out as he spun and dropped. Henri's rifle boomed, and the other son fell. The riders were almost upon him as Ralston, maddened with fury and holding Sandburg responsible for the loss of all his sons, whirled around to level his weapon on the man who was on his knees, bound and helpless, desperate for air he couldn't get - the rope drawn too tight to allow him to breathe.

Just before Ralston could pull the trigger, Jim dove off Lobo, tackling him and driving him to the ground. Ellison was so maddened by fury that he wanted to tear Ralston apart with his bare hands. As they rolled, Jim grabbed Ralston's gun arm but the older man was made strong by his insane rage and he punched Ellison hard in the face, while he fought to bring the gun down and around to shoot the Sheriff. Job, thought to be dead, struggled to bring his gun up and he shot Jim in the back barely a second before Henri rode in and shot the murderous lout, killing him. Freed of Ellison's restraint by the last perfidious action of his son, Ralston wheeled again on Sandburg, and was bringing his weapon up to shoot Blair in the head when Brown's next bullet rammed into his heart.

Henri jumped off his horse and raced to Blair, whose face was now blue with hypoxia. He was sagging to the ground, his strength rapidly waning as the rope around his neck choked the life from his body. The big man hastily loosened the noose and hauled it over Sandburg's head, and then he pulled out a knife to swiftly cut the bindings on Blair's wrists.

Heaving for air, gasping violently, Blair's gaze was locked on Jim who was laying on his back, apparently unconscious…or dead. As soon as he was free, Sandburg scrambled toward his best friend, hastily checking the pulse at the base of his throat and then pulling Jim forward, carefully, to rest on his knees as he bent forward to examine Jim's back. "Henri, give me your knife," he commanded with hoarse urgency, holding out his hand and, when he had it, he sliced through the blood-soaked shirt, baring the wound and the blood pumping from a powder-blackened hole to the right of Jim's spine, below his ribcage.

 ** _"Dammit,"_** Sandburg cursed as he ripped off his own shirt. The wound was pumping out blood, rich and red - too much, too fast. As a doctor, Blair knew with chilling certainty that Jim had been hit in a bad place, that this was a mortal wound, but he'd be damned if he'd let Ellison die. Wadding up his shirt as an impromptu pressure pad, he quickly tied the remains of Jim's shirt tightly around Ellison's body to put pressure on the improvised dressing and hold it secure.

"Henri," he called out, his voice painfully raspy, "help me get him on Lobo. We've got to get him back to town!"

Brown, who'd just finished quickly verifying that all the Ralstons were dead, caught Lobo's reins and drew him closer to Ellison and Sandburg, and then he bent to pull Jim into his arms as easily as if he were picking up a child. But instead of placing Jim belly-down across the saddle, he settled him in a slumped, seated position. "Hold 'im, while I climb up behind," he directed Blair. "Wound like that, he shouldn't be shaken up by a rough ride."

Lobo, who didn't usually take to strange riders, seemed to understand his cooperation was needed, and stayed rock still as Blair steadied Jim and Brown climbed up behind him, and then pulled the unconscious man back to rest against his chest, one strong arm holding him securely. Though the gouge on Butternut's fetlock was no longer bleeding, Blair knew she could manage neither his weight nor the speed he urgently needed. Trusting her to find her way home at her own pace, Blair climbed onto Brown's horse, and raced ahead to get things ready in the infirmary.

He hadn't a moment to lose…Jim was _dying…_

* * *

Megan was keeping an anxious watch, so when Blair rode in so fast, leaping from Brown's horse and racing into his office, she ran along the boardwalk to follow him inside.

"What happened?" she demanded, finding Blair in the back, a pot and a knife already heating on the stove as he rapidly sorted through the instruments he'd need.

"Bastards shot Jim," he rasped, his movements tight with controlled, economical precision. "Henri's bringing him in."

"The Ralstons?" she asked.

"Dead," Sandburg spat, growling, "and good riddance to them."

He turned and dumped the instruments into the already simmering water, glancing at the clock on the worktable as he moved to the cupboard to pull out towels, linen pads and bandages. Setting them on the workbench by the operating table, he then gathered up the medicines he'd need, also putting them on the bench, ready to hand.

"How bad is Jim hurt?" Conner asked, standing with her arms crossed, wishing she knew what to do to help.

"Bad," Blair grated. He heard the clop of hooves in the back and raced to the door to open it. Brown had already slipped off the saddle, Jim in his arms, and he carried the Sheriff past Sandburg to lay him on the table, where Megan immediately set to work pulling off his boots. Brown took off Jim's gunbelt to hand to Blair, and then loosened his belt, giving Megan a look before he pulled down the jeans. Taking his point, she winked, as she said dryly, "I'm sure he doesn't have anything I haven't seen before," but in deference to the unconscious Sheriff's dignity, she hurried out of the room.

Henri snorted and shook his head as he hauled off Ellison's jeans. "What can I do to help?" he asked Blair. "I used t' help out on the plantation when folks got hurt…"

"Good, thanks," Blair replied as he placed the gunbelt on the worktable, and then grabbed the bottle of ether. "Help me turn him on his stomach and then go wash your hands. I'll need you to hold some instruments while I operate."

While Brown washed up, Blair carefully administered the ether. Though Jim was unconscious, he could revive at any time, and that wouldn't be good in the middle of the operation. Then, checking the clock, he quickly washed his own hands, arms and bare chest, taking a fresh towel to dry himself off. He pulled the instruments from the boiling water, using the ends of tongs that had also been boiling away, a hot towel around them to keep from burning himself as he arranged them on another clean linen that he'd laid on the tray.

Moments later, he was working over his best friend. The bullet had angled up to the ribs, but then deflected deeper into Ellison's body. Silently, with grim, utterly resolute determination and ruthless precision, Blair traced its path, keeping the wound as small as he could and still do what was needed. He kept his field of work dry by using linen to mop up blood that still bubbled up from somewhere inside and from small capillaries damaged by the incision. When it became necessary, he fitted retractors into the wound, drawing them to the necessary position and quietly asked Henri to hold them steady.

Finally, he found the bullet embedded in Jim's liver. Blair swallowed hard as he examined the extent of the damage, and then sighed. Most of the organ was intact, only one end ruptured by the lead pellet. Not great, but better than it might have been. Swiftly, he extracted the bullet, and then spun to the stove to pick up the red-hot knife. Returning, he angled the blade carefully into Jim's body, and seared the damaged liver, cauterizing and sterilizing the lacerated part of the organ. Tossing the knife away, he spilled some whiskey into the open wound, then some of the herbs Whispering Waters had given him, and then closed, using small, precise, tight stitches. Before he bandaged the wound, he dusted it with more of the herbs, as well as sulfa powder.

Henri watched it all silently, wordlessly in awe of how fast the doctor worked. When Blair was finished, Brown turned Jim gently, enough to slip his arms around his back and under his legs and then carried him to the clean cot Blair pointed him toward. As soon as Jim was positioned on his side, supported by pillows, Blair drew two heavy quilts over him.

When Brown asked why the heavy blankets, given the day was warm and the stove had made the infirmary downright hot, Sandburg explained quietly that shock, from the blood loss and from the trauma of the very invasive and traumatic surgery, was the biggest danger now. He needed to keep Jim as warm as he could, his feet slightly higher than his head - and having explained why, asked Brown to lift the foot of the cot while Blair put two thick medical books under the legs to keep it elevated.

Finished, he stood back and blew out a long breath as he studied Jim, and then he wordlessly turned away to wash the blood off his hands and arms. He wanted to weep and rage, scream out about the injustice of this happening to Jim, but it would do no good. So he gritted his teeth, and swallowed his rage and his fear - there wasn't time to indulge his own grief and terror that Jim might not live - no time to wallow in guilt because Ellison had been hurt so badly by men hunting _him_.

"What about you, Doc?" Brown asked.

"Me?" Blair rasped, looking over his shoulder with a puzzled frown as he lathered his hands. Jim was the one they all needed to worry about, not him.

"Your neck's pretty messed up with raw skin and rope burn," Henri pointed out. "Got some ointment or something I can put on it for you, maybe a light bandage to put around it, so's it'll heal?"

Wearily, Blair gave his friend a slight smile as he nodded. "Thanks, H - I forgot all about it."

When his own injury was attended to, Blair looked up at the big man. "I really appreciate all your support today," he rasped through his raw throat. "For coming with Jim to save my neck - literally - and for helping me with him. You're a good and brave friend, Henri."

Brown looked down and away, embarrassed by the praise. "So're the two of you," he replied quietly. "T'was Megan told Jim the Ralstons were in town - she didn't like the look of them," he told Blair, sharing the credit for his rescue.

Connor returned then. She'd been lingering in the doorway, anxiously watching the surgery, ready to help if needed. But when Henri was moving Jim onto the cot, she'd gone back to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Holding out a mug of the restorative beverage, which she'd sweetened with honey, she said to Blair, "Jim's not the only one in shock. Sit down and drink this before you keel over. Only thing that's been keeping you going so far is sheer nerve." Turning to the blacksmith she ordered, "Help me bind his ribs. From the look of those bruises, I'd bet some are pretty banged up."

Blair blinked at her as he took the mug she shoved at him, and had to admit, now that there was time to notice, his ribs were aching pretty badly. When they finished binding his chest, she then cleaned up his face, putting antiseptic on the cut over his eye, making him hiss with the sting of it. That done, she stood back and gave him an assessing look, and then nodded. "Okay, I guess you'll do," she said crisply.

Blair couldn't help the small grin as he bowed his head in gratitude, and then looked back up into her bright eyes. "Thanks, Megan. For this," he waved at himself and the tea, "and for sending Jim out after me."

She nodded, only sorry she hadn't sent the Sheriff sooner. Looking at the bandages around his throat, remembering how his neck had looked and the hoarseness of his voice, she said hollowly, "They hung you, didn't they? Bastards. But why?"

Sandburg sighed. "Long story - we were on opposite sides in the War. I'm okay." When she gave him a skeptical look, he insisted, "Really, I'm fine. Look, I can take care of Jim now - you guys have businesses to run. You should go - but again - thank you, both of you, for everything."

They didn't really like to leave, but could see he needed some time to catch his breath. "Is he going to be all right?" Conner asked, pausing in the doorway.

"I hope so," Blair replied hoarsely, biting his lip as he turned away.

Silently, Megan and Henri nodded, and then they headed home. But they each pondered what neither had mentioned, nor ever would - the ruin of Blair's back. And they each wondered about the kind of hate that would engender such hideous abuse - if it was the same hate that had driven those monsters to ruthlessly hunt down a good and decent man, for the purpose of hanging him until he was dead. And then, they thought about Ellison, so desperately wounded by those same bastards.

Like Blair, they both consigned the Ralstons to hell.

Alone, Blair drew all the shades and dimmed all the lamps but one. He grabbed a spare shirt out of the cupboard and pulled it on, and then dumped the soiled linens and clothing that stank of blood into a bucket and set it outside the back door, to be attended to later. He cleaned his instruments and took away his medical supplies, closing them off in the storeroom. And then he picked up a basin and carried it to the small table by the cot. After filling a pitcher with water, and pulling down the laudanum from the shelf above the worktable, he carried it, the pitcher and a cup to the table. Last of all, he pulled out the small medicine bag with the panther talisman that he'd saved from Jim's shirt pocket, and slipped over his best friend's head.

And then he sat down in the chair beside Jim, waiting - hoping - his best friend would wake up. Taking Jim's limp hand between his own, clenching the long fingers tightly, he choked past the sob in his throat, "I did my best, but I don't know if that's going to be enough. God, _please_ , don't leave me. You have to fight, Jim, you _have_ to live…"

* * *

Two hours later, Jim groaned miserably. "Sick," he rasped urgently.

Blair shifted the basin quickly to the floor just below Ellison's face. Then, lifting a knee to rest his thigh against Jim's abdomen and pressing down with one hand on the wound to keep Ellison's body immobilized, he supported his friend's head as the man vomited over the side of the cot. "Easy," he soothed, his voice pitched low. "It's the ether - makes most people sick."

Ellison moaned again as Blair wiped his lips and then gave him a sip of water. _"Feel like I've been stomped by a horse,"_ he muttered weakly, grimacing with pain.

"You were shot in the back," Sandburg told him calmly. "How're the lanterns? All turned down?"

"Huh?" Jim mumbled, bleary with pain, nausea, blood loss and shock, not to mention the aftereffects of the surgery. "Oh, right." He pressed his eyes closed, fighting to concentrate on the images in his mind. "Damned things are bright," he grated.

"Okay, we can fix that," Blair soothed. "Let's start with the red lantern…"

Once he'd worked Jim through the process of lowering his sensory sensitivities, Blair gave him another drink, this time with a drop of laudanum in it. It would knock Jim out and keep him still - and right now, that was what was most needed so that he didn't pull any of the stitches and cause more internal bleeding. Sandburg knew the liver could heal, but it needed time. Especially since it would be working overtime trying to make up for the blood Jim had lost.

It wasn't long after that before folks started to come by, worried about their Sheriff. Blair appreciated their interest, and was grateful when Delores took charge of the laundry, and Maisie brought chicken broth and stew, along with fresh bread. But he was worried that too much company even in the front of the house, with people talking and asking questions, expressing their concern, would disturb Jim. So when Megan dropped in again, he asked her if she could stay and take charge of the door to the street - thank people for coming, but send them quickly on their way again. He asked in such a way as to present it as a favour to him, so that he wouldn't have to be constantly going to greet people.

Megan nodded, but she looked around at the dimmed room, and hadn't missed that Sandburg was speaking very softly, even for a guy with a raw throat. "Too much light and noise bothers him, doesn't it?" she asked astutely, her own voice soft. "I've noticed sometimes that he winces on really bright days, like he's got a headache. And he seems to overhear conversations no one else possibly could."

Blair's eyes flickered away from hers as he replied, "I guess, but lots of people have better hearing or vision than other people do…"

"Uh-huh," she grunted but let it go as she turned back to stand watch and fend off intruders, doing what she could to give both men a chance to rest and heal.

* * *

Blair kept Jim asleep for the better part of five days.

It meant painstakingly feeding liquids into him, virtually drop by drop, and massaging Ellison's throat to encourage swallowing, but Blair worked over him tirelessly, only stopping for quick, brief naps. When he'd ensured Jim's first need, for liquids to sustain his strength and help compensate for the blood he'd lost, Blair turned his attention to Ellison's body. Through Megan, he'd bought a sheep's skin from the General Store, rich with lanolin, to protect Jim's back, and got Henri to help him turn Ellison three times a day, to take pressure off his spine and hips. Hour after hour, he soothed lotion into Jim's skin, over his long arms and legs, and into his back and hips, so that his skin wouldn't dry or become irritated with lying too long on the rough cotton sheets. As he soothed and massaged, careless of the burn in his ribs as he lifted and bent the heavy limbs, he gently exercised Ellison's arms and legs, to keep circulation going and to lessen the weakening of Jim's muscles.

As he cared for his best friend, Blair's eyes blurred as he thought about how this was the third time that Jim had saved his life in less than a year, had simply refused to let him go. First, through the bitter cold and across the endless white prairie, at the risk of his own life, to get him back from the Indians and bring him home. And then, fighting his own terror, Jim had pressed his hands into Blair's body to staunch the hemorrhage that was killing him, and to remove the bullet that had brought him to death's door. And this time, thundering out to save him from being murdered by that scum, the Ralstons, only to have his boundless courage and unhesitating determination rewarded by a bullet in his back. Sandburg had done all he could, as fast as he could, to help Jim; hell, he'd move heaven and earth to save Jim's life, if he could. But he didn't know if his best would be good enough - and he was desperately afraid that Jim might yet give his life for having saved _his_.

And he talked, endlessly, a soothing ripple of sound, oblivious of the rawness of his own throat - soft words of respect and admiration, continuous encouragement to rest and focus on staying alive. Words that he could never say when Jim could hear them and know that one soul in this world wanted nothing more than his wellbeing and happiness, lest he embarrass the proud man. But this one soul sorrowed for Jim's pain and Ellison's silent grief over his inability as a man to right all wrongs, and in poignant regret that Blair could not better ease the burdens that Jim carried with such strength of body and character.

Feeling, somehow, that he should be able to do more, willing to give all that he had, Blair could only lay his warm palm over Jim's heart and bend to kiss this beloved man's brow, as he murmured, "I love you, my brother. I want you to live."

Minute by minute, hour by hour, day after endless day, Sandburg kept his vigil by Ellison's side, afraid that if he left, on his return he would find Jim gone…

If, and when, anyone in town needed his attention, he asked that they come to him, and he treated them in the office or the kitchen, leaving the infirmary quiet. He was quietly pleased when he learned that a prayer group had started over at the church, and that they were taking turns praying so that the prayers never stopped as the sun rose and fell and rose again as the days slowly passed. The preacher, Pastor Stevens, stopped by to offer good wishes and to assure Blair that he only need call on him or any of his flock for whatever help the doctor might need in caring for their Sheriff.

On the fifth day, guardedly hopeful that the wound was healing well and immensely relieved that Jim only had a slight fever, normal given how hard his body was working to heal, Blair stopped using the laudanum. It was time for Ellison to wake up - time for him to start taking in more than water and thin broth to regain his energy and strength.

A couple of hours later, Jim began to stir and Blair began a low murmur of encouragement to draw him back to consciousness.

"Hmm?" Jim mumbled and then sniffed.

"Come on, big guy," Blair soothed. "Time to wake up and show me those baby blue eyes."

"What?" Ellison muttered as he blinked and frowned up at the ceiling, his eyes slowly tracking toward Blair's voice. "What happened?" he sighed, grimacing with discomfort.

"I'll explain, but first, let's check your lanterns," Sandburg directed quietly. When he was satisfied that Ellison was as comfortable as he could be, he gave Jim some water, and then reached for the gruel he had ready and waiting on the side table. "I want you to eat some of this," he said, as he lifted a spoon to the Sheriff's mouth.

Jim took it and swallowed, but made a face, cutting his best friend a dirty look.

"I know, not your favourite thing, but you're not quite up to steak yet," Blair grinned, relieved beyond words that Jim was so coherent and responsive.

But Jim was now scrutinizing Sandburg, and from the way his eyes narrowed, he didn't seem to like what he was seeing. "Chief, you look like shit." And then memory seemed to return and he scowled as he stared at the light bandage around Blair's throat. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it's still a little sore, and my voice is a bit rough, but your marksmanship won the day - how the hell did you manage to hit that swinging rope with only one shot from that distance?" Blair replied, subtly redirecting the conversation away from his own injuries.

"I was motivated," Jim grunted, concern still in his eyes. "Jesus, Blair…when I saw…"

"I'm _okay_ \- as you can plainly see," Sandburg cut in, neither of them needing to dwell on that particular memory. "Thanks to you, with a little help from our friends."

"Those bastards better all be dead," Ellison growled, furious and sick with the memory of Sandburg swinging from the end of a rope.

"They are," Blair answered shortly, as he lifted another spoonful to Jim's mouth. "Now eat - doctor's orders." While Ellison ate, Sandburg told him again that he'd been shot in the back, but that he'd gotten the bullet out and was hopeful that Jim would have a full recovery. "I want you to take it easy for _at least_ a month, and as soon as you can take more solid food, you can eat all the steak and liver you want until I figure you've had enough red meat to restore your blood loss."

"If I'm doing so great, how come you look like something the cat dragged in?" Jim demanded before Blair could stick another spoonful of the gruel into his mouth. "Don't try to snow me - I've seen you take care of enough sick people without half killing yourself to do it. When did you last get some decent sleep?"

Blair looked away from the too penetrating gaze and set the nearly empty bowl down. Memories of the wound and the extent of the damage flickered in his mind, and he swallowed. "You were lucky," he replied quietly, turning his gaze to Jim's, "the bullet didn't hit anything that wouldn't heal. But it was…a critical injury, and I…I wasn't sure…I did my best…as fast as I could…but I was afraid…"

His voice cracked and he turned away, blinking hard as he drew in a deep breath. Swallowing, he murmured, "Sorry…I was just really scared for awhile…"

Jim reached out to grip Blair's wrist, holding on as firmly as his weakness would allow. "How long since I was shot?"

"A little more than five days," Sandburg replied, swiping at his eyes with his free hand before he turned back to face Jim. "I kept you knocked out so that you'd be still, and heal. But you _are_ healing, and you're going to be fine."

" _Of course_ , I'm going to be fine," Jim murmured fondly. "I've got the best doctor in the world looking after me."

Sandburg snorted, but he smiled faintly. "Yeah, well, you've got a doctor who tries real hard, I'll give you that." Reaching up to stroke Jim's brow, he dropped his voice as he added, "And your doctor says you need to go back to sleep and rest some more."

Weary, feeling far weaker than he'd ever want to admit, Jim nodded and closed his eyes, but when he felt Blair cover his hand in a light, reassuring grip, he murmured, "Make you a deal, Doc - I'll go back to sleep if you go over to the next cot and lie down. I can hear your heart beating, so you don't have to hold my hand to let me know you're nearby…"

"You can hear my heart beat?" Sandburg exclaimed in astonishment. "Really?"

Ellison grimaced, unhappy with himself for having blurted out something he'd not previously mentioned, because it felt so invasive and embarrassing. But then, struggling to make light of it, Jim blinked open one eye as he muttered, "Don't bother the guy who's trying to sleep, okay? Go lie down like your 'blessed protector' tells you to do." And then he closed his eye, immediately pretending to snore.

Blair laughed at the familiar tone of teasing, taking great comfort that it looked like Jim was going to be just fine. But as he stood, he leaned forward to drop a light kiss on Jim's brow before turning to sink down on his own bed, finally feeling he could relax enough to really rest. "I love you, my brother," he whispered as he closed his eyes.

"I know," Jim rumbled from the other bed. "I love you, too, kid. Now, for God's sake, go to sleep."

* * *

The leaves fell from the trees lining the banks of the creek and the nearby river; slowly at first as single, individual leaves lost their last grip on life and dropped to dance for dizzy moments on the wind, before sinking to rest and return to the earth. Then for two days, there was a virtual blizzard of crimson and gold tumbling from the trees, leaving them suddenly stark and barren, bereft. The wind no longer blew warm, but had a biting, bitter edge that cut through clothing and chinks under doors or between tiny gaps in the walls and around the windows. At dawn, the ethereal lacing of frost reflected the first, glittering beams of the rising sun. The homey scent of wood smoke filled the air, rising on plumes of wispy gray against the clear, deep blue sky; and the chill crispness of the air clarified and purified sound so that it fell sharper, cleaner, on the ear. Autumn and winter were dancing together, one spinning into the lead with a sun that could still be warm, and the other, blowing cold whispers of what was to come.

Activity in Bitterwood Creek slowed down as fewer drifters passed through, relatives stopped visiting from out of town, and everyone hunkered down to get ready for the coming winter. Women toiled over hot stoves, canning and making preserves. Men chopped and stacked endless cords of wood for the fires that were essential to survival once the snows came with their killing cold. Women pulled out the winter layers, going over them to repair rips and tears, putting on patches, letting down hems for children who were taller this year. Men went hunting, to lay in meat for the dark months. There was less time for casual socializing, a greater sense of urgency that there was only so much time to get ready before that first blizzard hit and locked them indoors for long, dreary, months.

Word came over the telegraph that the Cavalry's war against the renegade Indians, who refused to stay on the land assigned to them, was heating up. Wagon trains had been attacked as they'd lumbered across the western territories. A whole Cavalry brigade had been wiped out up in the Dakota Territory. Several homesteads scattered across Kansas, Texas and up in Nebraska had gone up in flames over the summer. It appeared the Cavalry was stepping up its efforts to contain the Indians. Soldiers were shipped west from the Union on the same trains that brought Gatling guns and huge stores of rifles and ammunition. There was a big push on to bring the hostilities to an end.

Folks in Bitterwood Creek felt charmed when they heard about the depredations in other places. Though Doc and the Sheriff refused to be drawn into any discussions about their collective good fortune, people had their own ideas - and were, frankly, astonished to think the Indians would be that grateful to have been helped by a single white man. They wouldn't have credited the savages with such a fine degree of decency and honour. Still, nothing else could explain their good luck, so they offered up their prayers for continuing safety every Sunday - and kept the good doctor stocked with meat, eggs, fresh bread, vegetables from their gardens and fruit from their trees, and a good stack of chopped wood, out by the stable.

Simon's sprained knee was taking a while to heal, and he still couldn't ride into town. Until he could, Jim and Blair both knew Sandburg couldn't maintain the peace in Bitterwood Creek alone. Henri Brown didn't know what to say when Sandburg approached him to ask for his help. As the Deputy, while the Sheriff was laid up, Blair had the authority to bring on another deputy, but no way under the stars would Brown have expected he'd be asked to take on such a high-profile, trusted and respected role in the town - to _wear_ the badge that Sandburg kept in his own pocket. His throat tightened up, and he brushed his hand under his nose as he sniffed, muttering something about having a cold, as he blinked rapidly. It made him proud to be asked to wear the small tin star, to be considered as someone whom others, black or white, would trust and respect, even defer to. So he took the badge and pinned it on, wearing it with a new level of confidence and visible commitment to do his best, to be worthy of Sandburg's, and Ellison's, trust in him. It never seemed to occur to him that the Ralstons might well have killed both Jim and Blair, if he hadn't ridden out with Ellison, but the Sheriff and his Deputy knew how it could have ended. Henri Brown had declared himself that day as a man who would make a stand when the chips were down and one of his people was threatened. So far as Ellison and Sandburg were concerned, he'd earned the badge, pure and simple.

Later, when Simon was able to come in for the weekend nights, Brown was as likely to be his backup as was Blair. It was a measure of the people who lived in Bitterwood Creek that most only thought the arrangement was sensible. Banks and Brown were capable good men, big strong men who could keep the peace, and that's what the job was about, wasn't it? Besides, Brown had helped save the lives of Doc and the Sheriff, so it only made sense that they'd asked him to help out.

The bottom line was, as Simon, Joel, Blair and Henri all assured him, it meant that Jim didn't have to worry about the security and wellbeing of his town and its citizens while he took whatever time he needed to heal.

The reassurance was thoughtful, even kind; but didn't do a damned thing to reconcile Ellison with the sorry fact that the bottom line, so far as he was concerned, was that _he_ wasn't doing his job!

So, starting about two weeks after he was shot and escalating as time went on, Jim complained vociferously that he was fine, that he had a job to do, and it was time to stop the coddling. However, despite his vocal assertions, he was secretly relieved that Blair paid him no mind. The weakness Ellison felt lingered, scaring him - making him wonder if he'd ever regain the resilience and energy, the sheer stamina and strength, that he'd had before the Ralstons had come to town. He felt the cold more, and he was always so endlessly tired, embarrassed to still be napping during the day when he'd slept soundly the whole night before.

He wondered if, maybe, he was getting old. Most men didn't make it to fifty, and he was pushing forty already.

But, much to his relief, he didn't have to confront the fears about his unaccustomed feelings of fragility anywhere but in his own heart, because Blair not only wouldn't believe his protestations about being 'just fine', but actively contested the fact, saying there was 'no way in **_hell_** ' that Ellison could be fully recovered. He'd lost a 'bucket of blood' - well, alright, maybe only a good-sized pitcher's worth - but it took months for the body to remake and restore what was lost, and there was no way to hasten that 'physiological process'. Furthermore, **_any_** major surgical operation challenged the body's resources of energy for up to a year, and Jim did realize that he'd undergone **_very_** major surgery, didn't he?

When Jim cocked his head and raised a brow as he looked meaningfully at his younger friend, Blair realized belatedly that he'd talked himself into a confession he'd never intended to make.

Sighing, he allowed as how he still got tired more easily since the 'summer' (his euphemism for having damned near died), and yes, it was frustrating, but it would pass, would eventually get better. He then, **_immediately_** , launched into a flurry of impressive and barely understandable medically technical explanations about the impact of 'gross trauma', reminding Jim that he'd suffered an essentially 'mortal', as in **_fatal_** , injury, but had been lucky enough to survive. **_But_** the massive severity of the injury 'shocked' the body, literally staggered it; and the corrective surgery, while eminently necessary, **_obviously_** , only **_compounded_** the initial shock and trauma, exhausting the body's reserves of energy as it reeled under the dual assaults and struggled to **_live_** , to **_survive_** , as in **_keep breathing_**! The body was a **_wondrous_** creation, but it was **_not_** invulnerable, could not and would not **_pretend_** to more than it could do - the body was **_honest_**! Pain **_meant_** something; it just didn't hang around because it was bored and felt like it. Exhaustion was **_real_** , not an illusion, not laziness or whatever. It was just plain **_stupid_** to ignore the body's messages, and Jim wasn't **_that_** stupid, was he? Blair hastened to point out that Jim had lost weight, though he was eating well, citing it as 'empirical evidence' that he was burning energy that his body needed to heal! The naps he needed in the afternoons were the same deal…his body **_craved_** nourishment, downtime and rest so that it could restore itself - so that it could build back strength and resilience and stamina! Just exactly **_what_** , about all that, **_didn't Jim get?_**

The combination of Blair's clinical certitude and personal candour, not to mention his outright indignation, eased Jim's hidden fears and reminded him that Blair had never lied to him. If Sandburg insisted this weakness was only natural and would eventually go away, then it must be true. So, he really tried to settle down to let his body heal without complaint, though he couldn't always contain his restiveness, his inherent need to be active. But, since he couldn't be active physically, he had a lot more time to consciously think about things as he lounged in the well-crafted, well-cushioned and cozy chair and footstool Sandburg had had moved up to his bedroom, along with a beautiful and warm down-filled quilt to keep him from getting a chill - so that he'd have a private place of quiet comfort to relax and rest, away from the hectic office and infirmary downstairs. Comfortable, and warm under that quilt, his gaze drifted out the window over the stark trees by the creek, and he thought about the stuff Blair had blasted him with, when Sandburg had finally had enough of Jim's persistent irritability and routine bitching, as well as his refusal to accept, with 'some modicum of grace', that he needed time to heal. As he recalled the scathing diatribe, he also remembered how Blair had admitted, reluctantly, that he, too, still felt weak after he'd almost died last summer. But then, Sandburg had, as was typical, distracted him away from that admission by haranguing him with ever more, and louder, information as it pertained to Jim's health. As to that, Ellison had to admit he'd never seen Blair so riled up before, though the fast-talking was nothing new.

And that gave Ellison pause, as he reflected that maybe Blair didn't always tell him the honest to God truth - maybe he didn't outright lie, but he'd misdirect, or withhold information, like the fact that **_he_** was still fighting residual weakness and a tendency to tire easily, not that **_he'd_** slowed down any. Chewing on his lip, Ellison considered that new insight, picking out other examples of how Blair kept his own hurts to himself, hidden by a convincing veneer of cheerfulness overlaying calm kindness. The kid had developed misdirection to a fine art in his efforts to not burden or worry **_anyone_** with his troubles, but most particularly his, admittedly, _occasionally_ overly-protective best friend. And, well, he'd sure spun a good yarn to Rutherford just a few short weeks ago. Blair could be a more convincing liar than most anyone would ever believe given his air of still youthful innocence, wide-eyed sincerity and cheerful nature.

 _Youthful innocence, my ass,_ Ellison thought with a snort, _that man has lived through hell on earth, and has to be pushing thirty!_

So…what if Sandburg wasn't being completely honest about the state of his own health?

And that got Jim to wondering why it was, apparently, only 'utterly obvious' that his body, most particularly his liver, needed a chance to heal - but it was perfectly fine for Blair to have a whole organ ripped from his body because the spleen was, essentially, useless. Why was it there in the first place, if was useless? And if blissfully sleeping through a 'profoundly invasive procedure' was so all-fired 'traumatizing', what did it do to a man who'd had to **_consciously_** live through the experience? What wasn't Sandburg telling him? With a shaft of sudden, cold, fear, Ellison wondered for the first time if the spleen was a whole lot more important than Blair had ever let on - and that maybe, without it, Blair was somehow vulnerable, might yet pay the ultimate penalty for having saved his life. Sure, he seemed to be fine, but what if he wasn't? What if he was just pretending to be fine?

Jim, having a legitimate and important bone to pick, would have trooped downstairs and confronted Sandburg with his new questions immediately, if the kid hadn't been out tending to a farmer who'd gotten his leg crushed when his wagon had rolled that morning.

So, Jim had to bide his time and - since he wasn't a particularly patient man - his sense of concern escalated to outrage that Blair so quickly lectured him while keeping important information about his own vulnerability from Ellison. They were supposed to be best friends, right? Partners, even. If he couldn't trust Sandburg, whom could he trust? And why the hell didn't the kid trust _him_ to be able to understand and handle Blair's needs? Was it a doctor thing or a Blair thing? Or was there something that Jim was doing, a way of behaving, that kept Sandburg from trusting him? Did he, maybe, think Jim didn't care?

Well, he'd find out, wouldn't he?

Just as soon as the devious little schmuck got home!

* * *

Jim heard Butternut's distinctive canter on the hard earth long before Blair finally rode into the yard below and swung wearily out of the saddle. Beginning to stand, intending to head straight downstairs, Sandburg's behaviour caught his attention, so he leaned forward, concealed by the curtain, and studied his best friend with new intensity. Sandburg was resting against Butternut, his head bowed against her neck, and his shoulders slumped, looking too tired to stand. Then he straightened up with visible effort to lead his mount into the stable. For long moments, during which time Jim listened closely, he stumbled around unsaddling Butternut and brushing her down, murmuring in low, sad tones that were too soft for Ellison to make out. He caught Sandburg's muted groan as he forked hay into the mangers for both their horses, and Jim was about to go out to help, but Blair was already shuffling out of the stable, his medical bag in one hand, the other clutching his collar closed against the chill wind. As he approached the back door, he looked up at Jim's window, the shadow of a smile on his pinched, worn features. He couldn't see Jim in the shadows, Ellison knew that, but he could see Blair plainly - the lines of exhaustion around his lips, the dark shadows of fatigue under too-wide eyes that were dull with weariness. And then Blair again straightened up, squaring his shoulders and forcing a bounce into his lagging steps, once again appearing the effervescent, indefatigable kid who laughed easily and seemed never to have a care in the world.

Jim's jaw tightened and his lips thinned. It hurt that Blair felt he had to pretend around him. And it made him angry, born of concern and worry for the younger man, but angry nonetheless. It was a lie, all that fine pretense of boundless cheerfulness and sparkling humour. Damn it. He should have noticed a long time ago. He knew what Blair had endured in Masonville, but had hidden away, would probably still be hiding if Jim hadn't seen the scars. Yeah, sure, the kid was probably only carrying on with the easy-going manner he'd likely learned long ago to hide what he figured others didn't need to know or, maybe, couldn't deal with. Sandburg was strong, one of the strongest men Jim had ever known when it came to character and conviction, integrity and honour, and nobody could hold a candle to the depths of compassion in the man. But, damn it - wasn't it lonely? When did Blair give himself a chance to just lean on someone else once in a while? Even now, with the depth of friendship they shared, did he feel he was alone? Had he always felt alone? And, come to that, why hadn't he ever talked about his childhood and youth? Jim frowned, wondering why he'd never asked Sandburg about his past. Maybe because he didn't want to talk about his own childhood and, if he ever raised the subject, Blair would be on him like a terrier, wanting to know what Ellison's home life had been like, and why he'd run away to the Army when he'd only been thirteen. And, sonofabitch, that kid would worm everything out of him and, before he was finished, Jim would have forgotten his original interest had been in hearing about Sandburg's past.

Well, he was wise to the kid now. No more fast-talking and misdirection, no more teasing and shrugs and easy laughter that dismissed the mere question that he might have problems, or worries, or hurts, as of no import. No more. This partnership was a two-way street; they backed each other up. It was time to get a few things straight.

By the time Jim clattered downstairs, Sandburg was in the kitchen, stoking up the stove and gazing at the shelves of canned goods and preserves that the good ladies of the town kept supplying. Hearing Jim, he turned with a smile.

"Hey, how're you doing? Hungry? I was just looking at our overflowing abundance of choices. Man, so long as one of us keeps getting hurt and invoking the mothering instinct around town, we'll never starve. I was thinking maybe some of Maisie's incredible beef soup - it's got lots of vegetables in it - and maybe some bread. A simple but satisfying evening meal - what do you say?" he burbled on as he poured hot water into a tea pot and pulled down two mugs, setting them onto the counter before retrieving the fresh loaf of bread from the cupboard and pulling out a round of cheese go with it - perpetual motion wrapped up in a cheerful package.

Jim crossed his arms, standing like a rock in the doorway. "What do I think? I think it's time you sat down for a bit and caught your breath," he said repressively. "You look so tired that the breeze from a butterfly's wing could blow you over."

Blair stopped and gaped at the tone and the thunderous look on Jim's face. "What's with you, man? Wake up grouchy after your nap? I'm fine, just…a little tired, that's all, no big deal," he replied, his tone teasing and dismissive.

"Cut the crap, Sandburg - I finally figured out the game. I know I'm slow, so it took me more than a year, but I _have_ figured it out," Jim slammed back. "Sit and catch your breath. I'm capable of heating up some soup and slicing some bread for supper."

Blair's eyes narrowed as he studied Ellison. Concerned, he asked, "What's wrong, Jim? Why do you look like Mount Vesuvius just before it blew up and buried Pompeii? I know it's got to be boring, here all day alone, and you hate being tied down. But, if you need something…"

"I'll tell you what I need, Chief," Jim cut in, moving into the room as he pointed a rigid finger at Sandburg, "I need you to start being honest with me."

Too tired to join in this dance, and not having a fine clue what Jim was going on about, Blair snorted and threw up his hands. "What is with you, tonight? What honest? When haven't I been honest with you?"

"What's the spleen really for, Chief?" Jim challenged.

"What?" Blair gaped, feeling slightly sandbagged and wondering if Jim had been amusing himself by reading the medical tomes in the office. His gaze shifted away, as he tried to redirect, to get to the bottom of why Jim was asking now, months and months after the fact. "Why? What brought that up?

Jim looked away, obviously reaching for calm. "You told me the spleen is useless, that nobody really needs one - but that doesn't make any sense. You said yesterday that the body doesn't lie, that it's 'honest'. So why would the body waste time with a useless organ? Why does it exist in the first place?"

"Oh, well, it all has to do with evolution, like your appendix, for example. At one time, it had a function processing the unrefined foods we ate, but now it's not necessary and really only causes trouble. Evolution takes a long time, Jim, and…"

"What's the spleen for, Sandburg? Straight out, okay? No beating around the bush about the appendix and evolution and…"

"I wasn't beating around the bush. You asked me why the body would have useless organs!" Blair cut in, his voice rising.

Jim blew out a breath and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The kid was working so hard at avoidance of the question that Ellison was getting very worried. What could be so terrible that Blair wouldn't tell him, even when he was asked directly and repeatedly? How serious was it? "You're starting to scare me, Sandburg," he said tightly. "What's so bad that you won't tell me?"

Hearing the genuine fear, Blair sagged. "Ah, Jim…it's nothing you need to worry about…"

"How about you let me decide that for myself," Ellison countered. "I'm all grown up, in case you haven't noticed. I'm not some kid you have to protect all the time!"

"Okay, okay," Blair capitulated as he held up his hands in surrender. He poured two mugs of tea, set them on the table and sat down. Looking up at Jim, he explained, "The spleen really doesn't have a hugely important role, not like the liver, or stomach, or brain or intestines. I didn't lie about that, not exactly. But, it may have a function in helping to sustain the immune system - to help resist and fight off disease. We don't know, not for sure, but people without spleens seem to be more prone to infection than they were before it was removed. That's it. No big deal. But, I didn't tell you because…"

"Because you're a doctor and you're around sick people all the time, and now you're more at risk and you didn't want anybody worrying about that," Ellison cut in, his anger building again. "Dammit! You could…"

"Die, yeah, I know," Blair cut in calmly. "Jim, every doctor knows his work can put him at risk. If we worried about that, we wouldn't be doctors. I'm careful. I'm not a fool or some martyr who thinks dying for my work would somehow be noble. But - I _am_ a doctor. I'm not going to stop being a doctor. And having you, or other people, worrying that every time I go out to treat a case of pneumonia or whatever, is going to…well, the worry doesn't help, doesn't change anything, and frankly, it just takes more energy to reassure than to just avoid the discussion in the first place."

"So, it was deliberate. You willfully chose to as much as lie to me," Jim accused. "You withheld this information, keeping it a secret…"

Having had more than enough, Blair stood up, stomping toward Ellison and poking his finger in Jim's chest as he flared, "Secrets? You want to talk about keeping secrets? How about the fact that you can hear my heart beat? Huh? How's that for a secret? I'm trying to help you use and manage your senses and you don't tell me something like that? Just how long, since we're being so honest here, have you been able to hear my heart beating? Do you hear everyone's heart beating? Because, that's been really worrying me. How distracting must that be? How incredibly annoying! God, how much energy does it take just to cope with that kind of noise surrounding you all the damned time?"

Startled by the attack, Jim backed up, trying to keep the avalanche of questions straight. "Since I first woke up after the bank robbery, that's when and how long. And, no, I don't hear everyone's heart, not unless I really listen. So, it's not distracting, or annoying - it's relaxing, more than anything…"

"All the time we've been working on your senses, and you never told me? Why not?" Sandburg stormed.

"Well, it's not something that comes up, you know…"

Sandburg snorted and shook his head. "Jim," he said quietly, "it's fundamental. I have run countless tests to determine the scope of your hearing, and you've never told me you could discern such subtle…do you know what that means? It means that when you're dealing with other people, you can tell when they're tensing up, or losing control or maybe lying. I can't believe you didn't tell me this until you were so whacked out that you didn't know what you were saying."

Wearily, he turned away, sinking into his seat, his head turned away as if he could hardly bear the deception.

"Chief, look, it just seemed intrusive…embarrassing…I didn't know how you'd feel about me hearing that all the time. I mean ALL the time," Jim struggled to explain.

"I'm a doctor, Jim. The functions of the body don't embarrass me. They fascinate me," he replied flatly, not looking up at Ellison. Shaking his head, Blair sighed and then raised his eyes. "It's okay, I know you're not comfortable with your senses, but please, you have to tell me this stuff or I can't help you."

Chagrined, Jim nodded, and then froze. His head lifted and he glared at Sandburg as he snapped, "You just did it again!"

"What?" Blair demanded, looking thoroughly confused and more than a little annoyed.

"You twisted a discussion about you and your health, and the fact that I want you to be straight with me, to a discussion about my senses, and completely distracted me from what I wanted to talk about," Jim replied, shaking his head, caught between exasperation and admiration for the sheer skill and subtlety of Sandburg's tried and true tactics. But then, at the look of utter confusion on Blair's face, he asked, "Do you even know you're doing it?"

Sandburg closed his eyes and leaned back against his chair. God, he was so tired. What the hell was Jim talking about, and did they really have to talk about it right now? "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I don't understand what you think I'm doing. I'm interested in other people, in lots of things - so I ask questions and…"

"No, Blair," Jim cut in quietly, his anger spent. Sitting down, he laced his fingers on the table and said, "It's not just about curiousity and genuine concern for other people - which you have in abundance. I'm not challenging that. I am saying that you have a habit, conscious or otherwise, of not letting anyone in, of **_never_** sharing worries, or burdens, or concerns, or whatever with anyone else. Whenever anyone gets close, you redirect the conversation away from you."

Blair opened his eyes to look at Jim as he listened. "But…" he tried to interject but Ellison held up a hand.

"Just listen, okay? I want to say this, want you to know what I've finally noticed, because it bothers me, and worries me. It's not just the big things, like Masonville or the risks you live with now because you don't have a spleen. It's the little, everyday, things, too. Like tonight. I saw you ride in. I watched you - you looked like you could barely hold yourself up, you're so tired. I heard you, in the stable, not the words, but you sounded so sad. And then, as you approached the house, you straightened up, pasted a smile on your face and bounced in, like everything was just fine. But it's not, is it? You're hurting and you're dead on your feet. Why do you feel you can't let me see that?"

Blair studied Jim for a moment, and then his gaze fell away as a range of emotion played across his mobile features. The mask of pretended vitality slipped away, followed by weariness that quickly changed to such profound sadness that Jim felt his throat tighten in response. "What is it? What's hurting so bad?" he asked, very quietly, afraid if he pushed too hard now, Blair would close up on him again.

Swallowing, Blair replied, in a voice hoarse with control as if he was afraid it might break, "I had to take off Simpson's leg today. There was nothing I could do to save it…the bones were completely crushed, and if I'd tried to save it, it would have rotted - and he'd've died." Twisting the mug in small circles, his head down, he continued, "He, and his wife, and his oldest kid, Nathan, he's nine - they all begged me not to take it off. 'Cause he's a farmer, and he's got six kids and he needs both legs to work the fields and keep his family safe and fed. He told me he'd rather be dead, that Aggie could find another husband then, to care for her, and the kids. He begged me…"

Blair's voice cracked then, and he compressed his lips tightly, his whole body rigid with the effort to not break down under the weight of pity and sorrow he carried. "He hated me, I could see it in his eyes, when he realized what I was going to do, that I wouldn't allow him the dignity of just dying and being done with it. You know how many times I've seen that look in a man's eyes? **_Hundreds and hundreds of times!_** All those men and boys in the War…but…life is _precious_. It's a gift. And I can't…can't just let it slip away, not if I can hold onto it. Nobody but God knows what the future might bring. Nobody knows how much richness they can still have. God…if they have someone to love them, family…if they can feel, and touch, or see the dawn or hear a bird sing…they're still alive, and life is something you don't get back when you throw it away in a moment of fear or despair. Death comes to claim us all soon enough - there's no need to hurry it along."

Blair took a deep breath, his hand coming up to brush his eyes and he sniffed. "I get tired, Jim. Physically, emotionally and spiritually tired, just like any other man. But I know it passes. Whether or not I'm right or wrong about doing whatever is necessary to help people hold onto some quality of life, I know that it's the only way I can be and live with myself." Looking up at Ellison, he asked, "Why would you even want to hear this stuff? Why do you want to know that someday I might get sick because my spleen isn't there anymore? There's nothing that can be done to change any of it. It just is. Why do you think I should tell you things that are only depressing or might worry you when you don't need the aggravation?"

"Because you're my best friend," Jim replied, his own voice unsteady. "Don't you understand? You don't have to carry all this alone. You're **_not_** alone, not anymore. I don't know how to say it any plainer, Chief - I don't want you thinking you have to pretend around me. Maybe all I can do is listen, and, yeah, maybe sometimes I will fuss too much, because I do worry about you. You're strong, kid - but nobody should have to be strong all the time, every damned minute of their lives. Why is it so hard to just let me be your friend? God knows, you've done everything in your power to be here for **_me_** , to help and support **_me_** any way **_you_** can."

Sandburg's eyes drifted around the room, not really seeing it, as he pushed his fingers through his hair, dragging it back off his face and behind his ears. "I don't know why it's so hard," he mused, a slight frown between his brows as he thought about it. "I can't really remember being any other way." Shifting his gaze back to Ellison, he continued, "It's not because I don't trust you, because I do. And it's not because I don't value our friendship - you're the best friend I've ever had and I…I honestly don't know what I'd do if I ever lost you." He took a shuddering breath and swallowed hard. "This past year has been the first time in my life that I've **_known_** that I'm **_not_** alone. You're like a rock, Jim. Solid. You won't ever let me down. Or betray me. Or…just forget about me. When you rode into Swift Eagle's camp, I couldn't believe my eyes. Nobody - I mean **_nobody_** \- else has ever, would ever, go out of their way, let alone do something so resolute, so brave, just to…to bring me _home_."

Sandburg's voice cracked as his head dropped into his hands, his shoulders shaking as he fought back the raw emotion that suddenly rampaged through him.

"Ah, Chief," Jim choked as he stood to move around the table. Hesitant, uncertain, he paused when he reached Sandburg's side, but he couldn't bear to see the kid hurting so badly. "Come here," he growled as he gently pulled Blair toward him, dropping to one knee so that he could hug the younger man. Blair turned into his arms, pressing close, his own arms coming up around Jim's back to hold on tight, his face pressed against Ellison's shirt.

"I'm sorry," Blair sniffed, still trembling. "I don't know what's wrong with me…"

"Shh," Jim soothed as he tenderly rubbed his friend's back. "There's nothing wrong with you. Not a goddamned blessed thing. Except, maybe, for your tendency to trick and deceive, misdirect and confuse to protect everyone around you. It's all well-meant, for a good cause, I know - but it stops at the door, okay?"

Sandburg huffed out a broken laugh. "Yeah, okay - I get it. Good causes outside and lost causes inside."

Turning it into a joke, dismissing it, making light of, and denigrating his own value. Jim sighed as he looked toward the ceiling, praying for strength. "No, kid, you **_don't_** get it," he said quietly. "You're not a 'lost cause', Blair. Who you are, what you feel, what you want, is important - and here, inside these walls, if nowhere else, you get to relax and just be you. Because, well, because you're worth caring about, and worrying about, and I want you to feel safe with me. Hell, Chief, of course I went after you to bring you home, 'cause this isn't home without you in it. You gotta know by now, I don't have a clue what I'd do if I lost you, either. Nobody in my life has ever been as important to me, as you are. **_Now_** , do you get it?"

Blair was quiet for a long minute but, finally, he nodded as he sighed, "Yeah, I, uh…thanks…" Pushing back out of Ellison's clasp, he sat back and looked at his friend. Licking his lips, he said steadily, "I'm real tired, tonight. It was a hard day. And, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you made us something to eat. Something not too heavy. And, uh," he hesitated, looking away, but then turned his earnest gaze back, "I'd really like to talk more about what you can hear - not because I'm trying to avoid talking about myself, but because I'm really interested. Okay?"

Jim's lips quirked in a crooked grin as he said, "Okay." Standing, he ruffled Blair's curls and added, "Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Snorting, Sandburg shook his head as he said, very seriously, "Oh, man, you have _no_ idea."

Chuckling lightly as he turned away to begin preparing their meal, Jim was, in fact, struggling desperately to hide the very deep fear that now took possession of his soul. Blair was at risk. Every damned day when he went out to tend someone sick, he tempted fate. But it was only too clear that Sandburg had absolutely no intention of giving up who and what he was - and if Jim wanted Blair to share his burdens, he couldn't be seen to buckle under them. Once again he despaired of his complete inability to protect a man who refused protection, and could only love him, and pray that Blair's strength of heart and soul would be enough to ensure the health of his body.

* * *

The walls came down after that - oh, not all at once. Both men were too engrained in their inclinations and habits of just dealing with things on their own. Long years ago, when they were still but young children, they'd both been hurt by life's events and, most of all, by their parents, who hadn't been there to hold and reassure them when things were rough - more, who had most often been the cause of their pain. Both boys had learned - very early in life - they had no one to depend upon but themselves. The despairing and very frightening realization that they were flying on their own, while still so young, had branded their souls. But, gradually, they learned to share more, and risk being vulnerable with one another, if no one else.

Jim learned more about Sandburg's childhood, and tried not to show his very real shock that Sandburg had no idea who his father was, illegitimacy being something shameful for most of society. Frowning, Ellison thought about the ugly names Blair would have been called by other children, and the way he would have been ostracized, as if his uncertain ancestry was somehow contagious. Blair didn't belabour the mystery of his parentage, more or less just treating it like another fact, but Jim saw the shadows in his eyes before they dropped away. Sandburg described his mother, Naomi, as something of a gypsy; but as more was revealed, Ellison thought the description kind more than accurate, though it was true enough that the woman moved around a lot, and had taken her son along for the ride. She wouldn't tell Blair anything about her past, so he had no idea of any family but her. Instead, she told him that it didn't matter where people came from - what mattered was the kind of person they were. And Jim had to admit, that was a pretty good lesson to learn.

Sandburg went on to tell him that throughout Blair's childhood, they had drifted from place to place, and not just in the United States but all around the world. When Jim asked how they could afford to move around so much, Sandburg had shifted uncomfortably before allowing that they didn't travel in style or alone, just not with the same people for long…the same men, for long. Jim had swallowed hard as Sandburg cut him a sideways look, gauging his reaction.

"She's not a bad person, Jim," he hastened to say. "She's great, actually. Just…different."

Jim could see how important it was to Blair that he not judge Naomi Sandburg harshly, so he nodded, and reflected aloud that Sandburg seemed to have learned a lot about the world, that it had helped to make him the kind of person who accepted people as they are. Ellison was rewarded by a relieved smile, and a grateful nod. But he wondered - wondered a lot - about Blair's revelation the first night Jim had begun cutting through the well-built walls that hid his friend's sorrows…about how Sandburg had said that **_nobody_** else would go out of their way to bring him home. And Jim began to understand that Blair had been talking about his mother that night, and that's likely why he'd reacted so emotionally to having to accept that it just wasn't normal to grow up feeling that totally alone in this world. Did 'not traveling in style' mean the kid had gone hungry and cold? Did all those men who had apparently streamed through their lives engage Naomi's interests and attention more than did her own son? Was that why he was so self-sufficient? Why he just expected when the Indians carried him off that no one would come after him? How often had he been lost, abandoned, afraid - and no one had come? Jim might have found his childhood home bleak and cold emotionally - but what must it have been like to grow up with no home at all?

Ellison tried to convince himself that, whatever her flaws and foibles, she'd raised a very good, very strong, man. But…he couldn't shake the conviction that Blair had more or less raised himself.

Though he didn't say so to Blair, because it was evident from the way Sandburg talked about his mother that he loved her dearly, Jim sincerely hoped he'd never meet Naomi Sandburg.

He didn't want to hit a woman; didn't ever want to shake one until her teeth rattled…

And Jim learned that he'd been quite right in his assumption that he couldn't just ask questions without having to answer some in return. With a certain degree of wry resignation, he accepted that if he expected Sandburg to come clean about what mattered in his life, then he had to do the same. Blair wanted to know why he'd run away at thirteen to join the Army - and Jim had known the question was pretty much inevitable, having let the information slip when he'd been trying to explain, more than a year ago, why the decision to attack Poplar Flats had been such a betrayal, not only of Running Deer and his people, as hideous as that had been, but also of the honour and word of the US Cavalry and the nation's government, the honour Jim had dedicated his life to upholding.

So, he told Blair about his own childhood. It had been a great deal different, growing up in a rich house in Philadelphia, with both parents and a kid brother, until his mother had gone home to her family, never to return again. He'd been young, only seven, when his mother had left, so he couldn't answer Blair's question as to why she'd gone. He didn't know, only that his parents had fought a lot; very civilized, never violent, but they'd said cold and ugly things to one another. Jim just assumed his Mom had gotten sick of it. Which left him with his father to try to explain. William Ellison was a businessman who prided himself on being astute and tough, and very competitive. Making money was, for him, a battle that men won or lost - victory going to the one who was smarter, faster, the hardest worker, the most determined. There was no room to waver, no time to play \- life was too serious for holidays. So he'd driven his sons to excel, and set up competitions between them for his attention and favours. To make them strong. To prepare them for a cold and indifferent world. Jim shrugged and said quietly that he'd just gotten tired of never being good enough, tired of being seen by his kid brother as the barrier that had to be surmounted for Stephen to win their father's love - tired of being the enemy in his own home. And he came to suspect that, much as they tried to win their father's love and approval, William really didn't have any inside of himself to give, so the competitions would just go on and on, never ending…never satisfying…nobody ever winning.

So, he'd called it quits and left.

"I'm glad you realized that it was all about him and had nothing to do with you or your brother," Blair observed softly. "Leaving was the smartest thing you could have done - but it must have taken a lot of courage." He paused for a moment, and then added, "You seem to have a learned a lot, though, taken a lot with you, I mean, about honour, and never giving up and giving your best. That's who you are, but you've chosen to stand for things that are a lot more important than money."

Jim chewed on his lip as he thought about that - he'd never looked at it that way before. If anything, he'd been afraid he'd turned out too much like his old man, as cold and remote. But he nodded slowly. He had made different choices than his father had, for different reasons, and he wouldn't do a lot of things over in his life. He was comfortable, mostly, with the man he'd become.

As Sandburg watched his friend consider his words, he wondered how much it must have hurt the seven-year-old boy when his mother had just left him with a cold, remote father and no explanation of any kind. Did Jim's own decision not to have a family, his sometimes prickly nature and initial reluctance to acknowledge their growing friendship and his tendencies toward being a loner, all grow out of a belief that, for some unknown and explained reason, he was unlovable? Lowering his eyes in the easy silence between them, Sandburg silently cursed Jim's parents for the way they'd both played a part in scarring his soul - and despised Rutherford for having destroyed the fragile peace Jim had found in the solid, predictable routines of community he'd thought he could trust and believe in, if not to love him, to at least give him a purpose that mattered and reason for being.

Blair also thought, but didn't say, that he'd like to sic his mother on William Ellison - she'd make mincemeat out of the idiot who defined money as the objective, as opposed to understanding that it was simply a convenience - a necessary but far from sufficient aspect of life. Shaking his head, Sandburg reflected that, in his experience, most people thought they needed, or they wanted, far more money than was ever really necessary to live a good life. The real wealth in life was the people you shared it with, what you learned, and experienced - what you could give so that your life was worth living.

 _Easy for me to say,_ Sandburg thought wryly as he looked around their kitchen, where they seemed to fall into these kinds of conversations at the end of the day. _This house was given to me - it's not like I earned it._

As the days went on, Jim found his time of recuperation wasn't so tedious, now that Blair was more candid. For one thing, he didn't feel so useless. He might not be up to busting up a barroom brawl, but he could do things around the house to make things a whole lot easier for a busy physician who tended, perpetually, to do too much. There was laundry to be done, bandages to be rolled, and meals to be made. Scalpels to be sharpened and the office always needed tidying up. And he could just listen, when Sandburg came home tired and careworn - it didn't take any effort, but the kid relaxed when he talked, and Jim knew he was sleeping a whole lot better.

Not that it was all sad stories. They had adventures to share, too; wild and hair-raising, crazy and sometimes so funny that they laughed so hard they had to gasp for air. It didn't really even matter what they talked about after a while.

They just both relished the easiness that had grown between them.

Neither of them felt 'alone', anymore.

And each of them knew with unshakeable certainty, so long as the other one lived, they'd never, ever, be alone again.

* * *

Winter blew in one icy November night, and the next morning the world sparkled with a carpet of white, the barren trees now decked out with fancy togs that caught the light, their starkness transformed to delicate beauty.

"Yeah, yeah, it's pretty," Blair groused as he shivered in front of the stove, waiting for the coffee to perk.

But Jim just snorted and cast his friend a sidelong look. Sandburg laughed, caught out. Oh, it was true, he didn't like the cold much - but winter had a kind of magic all its own.

"Want to go make a snowman?" he asked, his eyes sparkling like a kid half his age. "Maybe moving around will help me warm up."

"Sure, why not?" Jim agreed as he reached for his coat.

They started out making a snowman, and ended up building a couple of forts with the kids from the town, and tossing snowballs back and forth with hilarious abandon. Coming back inside, flushed red with the cold and exertion, laughing as they debated who had won, they set about making some hot chocolate to drink around the fire in the office.

And the house didn't seem as cold as it had that morning.

* * *

On a bright clear day in mid-December, Sheriff Ellison and Doctor Sandburg enacted their second annual murder of innocent trees and gleefully helped one another decorate the martyrs to the yearly ritual. Various townsfolk signified their approval by giving them each small ornaments for their office trees, and the two men had a good time eating as much popcorn as they strung, while drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows melting into the rich, decadent brew.

And Sheriff Ellison surprised his best friend by knowing a lot more of the words to the carols sung at the end of the Christmas pageant. When Blair teased him about it on their way home, Jim shrugged as he said, "Well, they _are_ pretty songs, Chief. Someone pointed that out to me, can't recall who offhand, so I paid attention to them, and decided I wanted to know the words, too."

And, though he snickered derisively, Blair was pleased at the subtle tribute.

When they walked into the church, though, on Christmas Eve, Blair really didn't know what to say, or where to look, when Urseline Tucker boomed out with great good cheer, **_"Well, Doctor Sandburg, it is good to see you! We'll save your soul yet!_** "

Jim came very close to hitting a woman for the first time in his life when Blair blushed crimson as everyone turned to look at him - the only ostensibly 'unsaved soul' in the building. "Mrs. Tucker, that's…" he began furiously, his own face flushed with anger.

But with a civil nod to Urseline, Blair gripped Jim's arm as he moved them briskly along the aisle to the first convenient pew that still had two spaces available…typically, at the very front of the sanctuary. _"Don't, Jim, please,"_ he murmured fiercely, cutting off Ellison's intended diatribe. _"Thanks…but don't."_

However, there was someone else in the church that evening whom had also had enough of the whispers and snickers, jeers and jibes, the totally undeserved insults to a fine man who served their community with skill and compassion, and who warranted consideration for the respect he freely showed others. Nodding to himself, having decided what he intended to do to redress the balance, he bided his time as the ritualized service progressed, through the opening prayer, and the carols, 'O, Little Town of Bethlehem', 'O Holy Night', and 'Good King Wenceslas'. And then Preacher Stevens rose to regale his congregation with his homily.

"Tonight, on this most special of eves, I wanted to talk about **_why Jesus was born a Jew_** ," he began enthusiastically, already working himself to thunderous excitement and, evidently, blissfully unaware - or uncaring - of the rustle of surprise in his congregation, at the most unusual subject. To many, it sounded as if it might be more appropriate to Easter, when everyone knew Jesus was crucified by the wretched Jews.

To one, it sounded like a nightmare.

Blair stiffened beside Jim and Ellison froze, wishing to hell they weren't in the very front row and could simply walk out. Sandburg sure didn't need a lot of crap about how evil the Jews had been and how they'd rejected the Lord.

"I think it's important, on this night of nights, to recall that the **_Jewish people_** ," the Pastor continued, his voice rising, as was his wont, to give emphasis to key points, "the **_Children of God_** , are the **_Chosen of God_** , and **_most beloved_** of **_all_** peoples, by our Heavenly Father. From the earliest times, God chose them to be the recipients of His message, despite the fact that they were a poor and, far too often, a besieged, beleaguered and abused community of people by those richer and more powerful than themselves. But God doesn't care about our earthly riches - did not Jesus say to render unto Caesar what is Caesar's, and unto God, what is God's? And does this not mean to render love, sacrifice and quiet, **_private_** , prayer? Did not Jesus revile the Temple and weep for the ostentation of public righteousness? Did he not enjoin us to pray in our closets, out of sight and seeking no approbation of others? **_Abraham, Moses and the Prophets_** , the men whose actions and words guide us as the foundation of our beliefs, **_were_** **_all Jews!_** God cares about how we live our lives, about the kind of people we are, and in our worship, we hope to be **_as_** beloved by Him **_as the Jewish people have always been!_** " He thumped the pulpit for good measure, to underscore his point.

"God chose Bethlehem, a small, Jewish village, as we sang earlier this evening, as the place of our Good Lord's birth into this world; and a simple carpenter and his wife, to be the **_parents_** of the man we worship as our Saviour. **_Good, honourable, Jewish people_**. And, we're told that he was born, as 'O Holy Night' recalls, because the world had long been 'in sin and ever pining, for the soul to find its worth' - a **_Glorious gift_** to this world, the world of people who were lost, **_to help us_** find our way. A man born of a woman, to show us how to live **_compassionately, generously, selflessly,_** to teach those who had either forgotten God's Word, or who had never known the importance of living to give to others. And, as 'Good King Wenceslas' story tells us, **_it is for us to look to see those in need, to go out, as Jesus did, even in the dark, cold, bitter weather, when we know another needs our help - quietly, without fuss, but to good purpose._**

"In thinking about God's **_most beloved_** people, it occurs to me, that we are **_especially blessed_** , here in Bitterwood Creek, to have **_one_** amongst us who reminds us every day of **_why_** God chose the Jewish people as His own from the beginning of time."

Waving widely toward the front pew, he spelled it out, "We have, in **_Doctor Blair Sandburg_** , a man who **_eminently_** demonstrates to us why God would choose Dr. Sandburg's people as those most special unto Him. Like Joseph and his wife, Mary, Dr. Sandburg is good and honourable, hardworking and unassuming, decent and compassionate - a man who quietly strives **_every day_** to hold us **_safe_** from the ravages of misfortune and disease. Few choose such a career as medicine, because it brings them into personal danger, doesn't it? But Dr. Sandburg walked into town in the midst of an epidemic, simply because **_he knew_** perfect strangers **_needed him!_** The first of two Good Samaritans to pass our way within days in answer to our needs…" he paused, as if overcome with such gladness he could barely speak, " _who did not pass on, but stayed, to our **everlasting** great joy."_

He shook his head, as if in awe, and then lifted his hands with his voice in exuberant testament, "I don't think it's too much to say, that just as Jesus was God's Gift to our world, sent when He was needed, that **_God sent us_** one of **_His most beloved, Dr. Sandburg_** , because we had, and have, **_such great need of him_**. A great blessing upon us all, to be sure!"

And he thumped the pulpit again.

"Who amongst us has the right to judge another soul? Did not Jesus, our Saviour, in fact **_actively caution_** us against judging others, lest we bring judgment upon ourselves for our **_arrogance_**? Yet, have we not been guilty, in our zeal and ignorance, of blaming all of our Good Lord's family, His community, for the actions of a pitiful few? **_Not all Jews were lost in sin!_** Far from it, or there'd never have been suitable **_parents for Jesus_** in **_Judea_**. Not all Jews were blind to the truths. He brought us, or there would have been no **_Disciples_**. It was **_good, strong, humble and sincerely God-loving Jewish people_** who were **_chosen to show the rest of us how to live_** ," he harangued his flock with his full, ringing voice as he waved his arms to lend emphasis to his words.

"Just as **_Dr. Sandburg_** , each day, **_renders mercy_** ; who **_walks as a man of peace_** in a dangerous time when most men go armed; **_who does not judge_** between the rich and the poor, as to who can pay for the goods he brings, whether the skills to heal, or the medicine he provides - he ministers to all, according to their need. Who among us will ever forget **_his extraordinary sacrifice_** last summer, when **_he gave the greatest gift any man can_** , when **_he offered his own life to protect his friend, our second Good Samaritan_** , as it happens, our good and brave Sheriff Ellison - we can only thank God, for not taking either of them from us! And, **_like Good King Wenceslas_** , Dr. Sandburg is often out in the darkness and bitter cold, alone and unseen, quietly bearing what is needed to those who are suffering, **_without hesitation_**. And even as **_Jesus never cared about creed or colour_** , or God's message would not have been sent through Him to **_all of us who are descended from heathens,_** who either had never heard God's Word or did not even know of God, Dr. Sandburg didn't hesitate to help an Indian, someone the rest of us might only have reviled, who he came upon injured and in need - and we _wonder_ ," his voice dropped as he leaned forward conspiratorially, "amongst ourselves, why we've been spared the depredations that go on all over the west _but not here_?"

Standing tall, his voice again rose to the rafters, "Every day, in **_every act_** , he shows us why **_God loves the Jewish people most of all_** , and why **_he entrusted them with the care of his Son!_**

"So, tonight, as we recall that Jesus was born a Jew, to grow into manhood amongst the community of God's most beloved, I think it appropriate to be grateful that God also sent Dr. Sandburg, _ **one of His**_ most beloved, to us to remind us of why Jesus was born a Jew!

" ** _Thank you_** , Dr. Sandburg, on behalf of **_all of us_** , for the **_grace_** you bring to our community, for the **_love_** you show to all without discrimination, and **_for the fine example you set of how to live in accordance with the Word of God_**. And, thank you, sir, for joining us tonight, as we celebrate the birth of **_one of your brothers_**.

"And, now, let us rise, to sing 'Silent Night'…"

Blair had gasped as Pastor Steven's message and purpose became clear. As the good pastor extolled his virtues with thunderous acclaim, he sat with his head bowed, grateful but embarrassed, never having wanted or expected such tribute - most especially, not here, in the midst of the Christian congregation. He sniffed softly as the sermon went on and Jim saw him brush furtively at his eyes more than once. And when Pastor Stephens addressed him directly, he took a deep breath before he looked up, overcome with the honour the minister was giving him so publicly. Smiling tremulously, he inclined his head in acknowledgement and appreciation of the gratitude expressed to him.

But while Blair sat with his head bowed in humility, Jim had sat straighter, well pleased with the tributes being given his best friend, thinking them richly deserved. It appealed to his sense of irony, to know good Mrs. Tucker, and others like her, were being lectured with fervent zeal and very precise language as to exactly why Dr. Sandburg's soul had no need of saving. When the preacher thanked Blair, Jim gripped his friend's shoulder, adding his own wordless agreement to all that was being said, proud to know Sandburg had chosen him as his best friend. And he kept his arm around Blair's shoulders as they stood to sing the last hymn of the service, a hymn about family, peace and love.

Most, but not all of the congregation had sat enthralled and in broad agreement with their Pastor's fervent endorsement of God's Chosen and their own local member of that exalted community of people. Urseline and her husband, Clive, stiffened - aghast - in disbelief as the preacher thundered on, flushing deeply with insult and silent, hot fury. Nor did they miss the sidelong looks of amusement or condemnation from their neighbours, miserable little people who had no right to judge them! Never before had they heard such loathsome drivel, and it was quite clear that their Shepherd had taken complete leave of what little sense he'd ever shown. Why, his entire manner was shockingly appalling - blasphemous - and they seriously wondered if the Devil had taken possession of the poor, misguided man's soul. Urseline's hand fluttered at her throat as she looked warily around the sanctuary as if expecting to spot Satan leering at them all. And let other, stupid fools shift away from them as if they smelled bad, who cared? They'd see, they'd all see on Judgment Day who was rewarded for piety and who was cast into the fire! Oh, when would the dreadful man stop and sit down?

Sitting at the rear of the church they, and some few others like them, couldn't wait for the hideous service to end. It was the hypocritical worshippers at the front of the sanctuary, pushing themselves forward to curry favour with the preacher, who were usually the last to be able to leave; which was why, of course, sensible people came early to get the good seats in the back. But, as the service ended that night, people respectfully waited for their preacher to move down aisle to the back where he'd shake their hands as they left, thereby effectively blocking the Tuckers' haughty march to the door. And then, as if that delay wasn't aggravating enough, Pastor Stevens stopped by the first pew and waved to Blair to join him. Shaking their heads, their lips thin with sarcastic disapprobation, they watched as the _'second so-called Good Samaritan'_ , another who must _obviously_ pray in private - assuming he prayed at all, which was doubtful as he certainly _never_ prayed in the church - stood and stepped into the aisle behind the minister, making way for Blair to slide out of the pew.

 _"Thank you,"_ Blair stammered quietly when he reached the preacher's side, conscious that all eyes in the church were again upon him. _"That was very kind…"_

"No, it was richly deserved and too long coming," Pastor Stevens replied bluntly, but he smiled warmly as he hooked his hand over Blair's shoulder. "Walk with me," he invited, drawing Sandburg with him as he turned to move along the aisle to the back of the sanctuary.

Taking a breath, Blair lifted his head with unconscious dignity as they strode what seemed an endlessly long path in what was only, really, a small chapel. At first, he didn't look at anything but the door at the far end, intent upon making his escape. But as they moved past the other townsfolk, people reached out to touch his arm, or to shake his hand, as they murmured their thanks in echo of the preacher's words. There wasn't a family there he hadn't helped in the past year and a half, and a good many of the children were alive that evening because of his care - and everyone knew it. So, he ventured to look around as they made their way forward, and was deeply moved by the affection, the gratitude, and the pride that he was one of theirs, that he saw in most of the gazes he met.

So as one who had entered that building feeling apart, who was greeted callously about his difference from everyone else present, marked as an interloper who didn't belong, Sandburg was walking out with the affirmation that most of the folks of Bitterwood Creek not only saw him as one of theirs, but were genuinely not only grateful, but also held him in affection and high esteem. When they reached the doorway, Blair's eyes were damp as he turned to Pastor Stephens to shake his hand.

"Merry Christmas, Pastor Stevens," he said, his voice unsteady with emotion. "And, _please_ , accept my thanks for making me so welcome. I never expected…"

"Humble men never do," Stevens chuckled as he cut in to pull Blair into a hug and slapped him on the back while the rest of the congregation waited their turn to leave. "You're a fine man, Dr. Sandburg - I meant every word. You are a blessing upon us all, and as sweet Nellie told me once that she'd said to you: you, sir, are the answer to our prayers. Don't ever let anyone tell you any different. Happy Chanukah."

When Pastor Stevens released him and turned to shake Jim's hand, and then the others in their turn, Blair stepped outside and took a deep breath. Jim was right behind him, and looped an arm around his shoulder as they stepped down to the shovelled walk and then along the boardwalk toward home. The only citizens to live on the far side of town, they walked in silence, hunched a little against the cold, until they'd left the others behind.

"That was…incredible," Blair murmured once they were on their own, shaking his head, a smile of wonder on his face, still scarcely able to believe what had just transpired. "He honoured a Jew - on Christmas Eve!"

"Two of them, actually," Jim drawled with a warm grin as he looked down at his best friend. "You and the birthday kid." When Blair snorted, he went on, as if musing in reflection, "Well, actually, that's not quite right, is it? Let's see, he mentioned Mary and Joseph, Abraham, Moses…the Prophets, the Disciples, the whole Jewish people since the dawn of time…and reminded us, for good measure, that the rest of us were the heathens. Fine sermon, one of the best I've ever heard; useful, too, the way he pointed us to a walking, talking example of how to live a life in accordance with scripture…"

Blair elbowed him as he laughed. "Stop! Enough! Any more of this and my fine hat won't fit my head."

Ellison just shook his head as he smiled fondly at the younger man. "Laugh if you want to, Chief. But Pastor Stevens was absolutely right in everything that he said - including that it was long overdue. I think I could get to like that man."

"You'd have to give up fishing on Sundays," Blair teased.

"Uh-uh," Jim grinned. "You forget, I go fishing with the walking, talking - very talkative, actually - example of …"

"Merry Christmas, Jim," Blair interrupted with a bright smile.

"Happy Chanukah, Chief."

The next morning, when they exchanged their gifts, Blair gave Jim a new pair of boots that he'd had specially crafted by the new leatherworker at Brown's saddlery. He'd snuck out with Jim's old pair when the lawman was sleeping through a Saturday morning, after a long Friday night's work, so that they'd been made to fit his feet according to the wear pattern, designed to be comfortable on his endless patrols around town. And, a black sleeping mask Blair had fashioned himself out of a small piece of silk he'd bought at the ladies' millinery shop, much to the amused speculation of the clerk, so that Jim could rest better during the daylight hours.

Jim, mindful of how Sandburg felt the cold during the long winter, had asked Maisie to knit a sweater especially for Sandburg, thick and warm, with a pattern of a grey wolf with eyes an unusual shade of blue. He'd remembered that Swift Eagle had told Blair the year before that Sandburg's spirit animal was a wolf, and the kid had gotten such a kick out of the idea that he apparently had a spirit guide.

And they were each _very_ happy, with the gifts they received, but most of all with the pleasure that resulted from the gifts they gave.

* * *

The long winter that year was hard, the snows deep and the wind a perpetual icy moan across the featureless, white plains. It broke what was left of the spirit that had driven the Indians, on that part of the prairies, to defy their fate. Their core way of life, built around communities that survived by drawing upon their collective strength, fragmented. The men were unable to live with their families when they were perpetually on the run, fighting in lightning raids or being decimated in bitter, bloody battles. The women and children grew thin without their men to do the hunting. Babies died, and the elders, the hope of the future and the wisdom of the past disappearing too fast, unable to keep up with the constant movement to stay ahead of the Cavalry. There was no time to prepare for winter. No time to find a sheltered winter campsite where they could ride out the worst of the season.

The leaders came to wonder what it was they thought they were fighting for, if not to secure a future that respected and cherished their past.

Weary, the war bands came in, one by one, weaponless supplicants, their heads bowed. They needed food for their families, and shelter from the cold. Prideful resistance had become too costly to sustain. It was time for a different kind of courage - the courage to endure, to live to share their traditions and beliefs, their values and rituals with their children. Time to come back together as a people, before they all were killed or died of privation, and all that they had been just blew away on the wind, like the tumbleweed and the dry leaves of autumn.

Jim, once again walking his patrols of the town, stopped in to visit with Johnny Winston at the telegraph office late one afternoon, to warm up by his fire and catch up on the news. As he slammed the door on the blustery wind that surged in behind him, he could hear the ticky-ticky-tac of the telegraph, sending news across the country. It was amazing, he thought, how fast things were changing, with the railroad and the telegraph bringing the country together and making distance almost irrelevant.

Johnny looked up and nodded, but bent his head down immediately as he continued transcribing the message. Going to the potbelly stove in the corner, Jim checked the fire and pushed in a couple of extra logs, stoking it up, and then he poured himself a cup of coffee.

When the wire finally fell silent, he asked, "So what's the word, today, Johnny?"

"The Indian Wars are over, at least in Kansas," the young man replied, seeming almost stunned by the news. As well he might be, for the fighting had been a way of being for over half his life.

Jim paused in the act of raising the mug to his lips. "Really? What happened?"

"They gave up, quit - surrendered," Johnny replied. "The treaty was signed yesterday at Fort Nash. The Indians will be moved to specific parcels of land, that will be theirs 'so long as the wind blows', and the Government will ensure Indian Agents look after their welfare - you know, make sure they got enough food to eat and medical care." The kid paused and thought about that. "Must be nice," he mused with no little bitterness, "getting land and food and doctoring for nothing."

Jim's jaw tightened as he set the mug down. "Oh, they don't get it for nothing, Johnny," he said as he headed out to resume his rounds. "Believe me, they paid plenty to be told they aren't free anymore."

* * *

"So, the fighting is done," Blair reflected when Jim found him in his office and told him the news. He knew he should feel better about it, but it seemed sad, somehow. "It's a good thing that the dying is over…"

"You mean the killing," Jim replied abruptly, and then sighed as he shrugged out of his heavy coat and hung it on the coat-stand in the hall, just outside the office door. Tossing his hat on a hook just inside the doorway, he agreed, "Yeah, it is a good thing. Too many innocents got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You think the treaty will be honoured this time?" Sandburg asked as he leaned back in his chair. "By both sides?"

Jim blew out a breath as he stared out the window at the snow that swirled and gusted along the dreary street outside. It would be dark soon. "Yeah, Chief, I do. The Indians don't have anything left to fight with, so there's no reason to fear them anymore. They've lost everything, Sandburg. There isn't anything left that we can take from them."

Blair bowed his head, frowning as he thought about that. "No," he said, looking up to meet Jim's eyes. "I don't think that's completely true. They've lost a huge amount; don't get me wrong. But…they still exist, Jim. They are still a people with beliefs and values all their own. With a heritage of tradition that binds them as a community." Looking away, he murmured, "It's gotta be terrible, to face such a massive and irrevocable change in a way of life, but it's not impossible to change. Maybe now, we can start learning from one another instead of killing one another, just because of who we are."

"I hope you're right, Blair," Jim sighed. "But I don't know. It takes something from a man, something in his soul, to capitulate in an unconditional surrender. The wound goes deep, and it can fester for generations."

"I don't doubt that's true," Blair countered. "But men can change, a people can change - it's happened all throughout history, Jim. My own people were forced from their land almost two thousand years ago, sold as slaves all over the known world. But they've come together, in communities, held to their traditions. They've been persecuted and reviled and forced to move on, time and time again. Sometimes, adversity makes a people stronger." He paused a moment, and then said, thoughtfully, "Though, yeah, you're right about the wounds never healing. One of the traditional salutations for Jews is 'Next year in Jerusalem'. After almost two thousand years, a very great many still dream of going home…"

Turning from the window, Jim grated, "I know empires have grown and collapsed all throughout history - we're taught about all that at West Point. But, right here, right now, we've forced a proud and independent people to give up their land and their freedom to move upon it. We've made them dependent upon the nation for such basic things as food and shelter. What happens if, someday, we get tired of their dependence? Johnny already thinks that it's an easy life they've been given in the treaty, and he figures they got it for free. What happens when we all forget that it cost them everything they valued?"

"If that's the case, then why did they surrender?" Blair asked, honestly grappling with the issues, trying his best to understand them. "If it really cost everything of value, why did they choose to continue living? Why not fight until the last one falls?"

"You tell me," Jim sighed as he ran his hand over his head and kneaded his neck. "I thought maybe they _would_ fight until the last warrior died. I…I'm glad it's over, I really am. They could be vicious and wily adversaries - and whole families were wiped out. I can't claim to understand how they think - but I _didn't_ think the word 'surrender' was in their vocabulary. Especially after Poplar Flats."

"Maybe they don't think much differently from the rest of us - we're all human beings. I imagine they probably had to weigh out the different things that mattered to them. Got to that place where they had to decide what they were living, or dying, for. Their families were dying, too, Jim - a lot faster, and a lot more of them, than they ever killed in their raids. Maybe they chose to live, to not be forgotten. Maybe they traded land and freedom for the lives of their children."

"Hell of a bargain, Chief," Jim grunted.

"Maybe," Sandburg replied. "But a bargain, nonetheless. They aren't a stupid people. They could see as well as you could, especially with the push by the Cavalry these last few months, that defeat had to be inevitable. At some point, fighting just doesn't make sense anymore - not unless you really _are_ prepared to be completely annihilated."

Jim nodded. "Yeah, I guess." He sighed as he slumped down in the chair by Sandburg's desk. "Most everybody will see this as a great thing. In a way, it is. But - for years now, I've just felt it's all wrong."

"I didn't say it was right," Blair sighed. "I really wish that it didn't have to be this way; that there could have been a different relationship from the very beginning."

"Which way, Sandburg?" Jim challenged, cynically. "That the Indians killed off all the Pilgrims while they landed, before we got a foothold, instead of giving them food over the winter, or that we started out paying fair value when we bought Manhattan?"

"We really are the bad guys, aren't we?" Sandburg grimaced.

But Jim shook his head, too knowledgeable and experienced with war to see only one side of the conflict, or to think there were ever any easy answers. "Are we? Maybe. But people came to North America for good reasons. Life in England, Scotland, Ireland and the rest of Europe wasn't great or they would have stayed there. The hardest part about all this is that most people, on both sides, were only doing what they thought was right and necessary."

"And we didn't find a way to communicate so that we could each understand and accommodate the other's vision of what was 'right and necessary'…" Sandburg reflected. "Do you think we ever will?"

"Sure, someday, maybe, when we learn to respect that different isn't bad," Jim shrugged. "Take you, for example."

"Me?"

"Uh-huh," Ellison nodded. "You were dragged off against your will, terrified to your boots, but you saw people who needed help, so you did your best. Because that's what you do. And - in the middle of it all, you were trying to learn about their medicines and all excited about the fact that Swift Eagle could see your spirit guide. Because that's who you are - you want to learn, want to understand, you're curious and you don't just assume your way is the only right way. If more folks were like you, on both sides, maybe we'd find a different way than beating one another's brains out until one side cries, 'uncle'."

"Do you think Swift Eagle and Whispering Waters are still alive?" Blair asked, his eyes troubled.

"I don't know, Chief," Jim replied as he slung his arm around his friend to walk him toward the kitchen to get supper ready. "But we can find out."

As they sauntered down the hall, Jim tried for a nonchalant tone, "So, about this, 'Next year in Jerusalem,' thing…you weren't…"

Blair tilted his head to look up at the best friend he'd ever had. "I said, 'many hope to go' - the ones who haven't found a place where they feel they belong, who still long for their homeland," he said soberly, but then added with a sweet smile. "I'm not one of them, Jim. I've stopped wandering, 'cause I've found my home."

* * *

It didn't take Jim long to find out if Swift Eagle and Whispering Waters were among those who had survived; he just sent a telegraph to the Indian Agent responsible for the reservation about a hundred miles northwest of Bitterwood Creek. But they both agreed that winter didn't seem the best time to head out on what would be several days' journey, and that was only one way. Sandburg was especially concerned about leaving the town without a doctor for so long. Still, he definitely intended to go when the weather turned warmer, as he really wanted to learn more from both of the older Indian men, so he puzzled about how he could leave in good conscience. Finally, he came up with a three-part solution, which still wasn't ideal, but was about the best he could do to not leave them without some support in his absence.

First, he paid a visit to Marnie MacDonald at the school one afternoon just after lessons had ended for the day, to see if she'd agree to him using the building for a course he wanted to offer in first aid to anyone in town who'd like to learn. Marnie thought it was a wonderful idea, but made the stipulation that he'd also have to teach her students the same lessons. Delighted by her enthusiasm, and thinking it would be good for the kids to know some basics, he agreed readily.

Then, he visited two of the women in town he'd come to have considerable respect for - Delores McCready and Sarah Sloane, to ask them if they'd consider working with him to become midwives. Neither was quite certain how to respond, as pregnancy and birthings were very private matters, very personal. They were also two of the town matrons, and weren't sure if it quite suited their positions as wives to one of the most successful businessmen, and the town banker, if it was at all proper. But Blair had selected well. Both women were intelligent and both were compassionate; they were also very sensible, quick to render aid and bored out of their minds. Though each said she'd have to think about it, they had both accepted within two days. He began tutoring them immediately at the office and, for the rest of the winter and into the spring, he always took one or the other with him when he attended a delivery.

And, lastly, he crossed the street to visit the apothecary, Milt Ambrose. He'd come to know the man well in the past months and Milt had stocked the medicines Blair had recommended be kept on hand; he'd also proven most able at mixing up special prescriptions when the need arose. When Sandburg asked him if he'd be willing to work with Blair to learn the signs and symptoms of the more common ailments, such as pneumonia, heart failure, gout, and skin rashes, as well as the most worrisome, like diphtheria, measles, scarlet fever and influenza, so that he could provide emergency assistance and appropriate medicine if the Doctor was out of town and unavailable, Milt agreed. Most doctors didn't attend any formal medical school, so he figured Sandburg's training would be as good as any, and it would enhance his status in the town.

It also made good sense to him that the Doc was preparing for possible contingencies. When Sandburg had been hurt so bad last summer, the townsfolk had not only worried about him as someone they liked and respected, but were also deeply concerned about what they'd do if a doctor was needed and he wasn't well enough to do what was necessary. They'd been lucky; there'd been no summer sickness last year, but it was Milt's opinion that Sandburg had been up and around long before he should have been, and he was concerned that the younger man still looked peaked, the bitter weather sapping what energy he had.

The day and evening classes at the school, the tutoring of the new midwives and the work with Milt filled all the spare time Sandburg had that winter, but as spring edged nearer, he felt good about the fact that soon he would no longer be the only one who could be called upon when folks were sick, injured or about to have a child.

Meanwhile, as Jim listened to folks around town talk about what a blessing it was that those vicious savages had finally surrendered, or spit on the street in disgust at the idea that murderous, no good, Indians should now be guaranteed what other, decent, folk had to work for, like food and shelter, Ellison grew increasingly uncomfortable. It was too one-sided, this assessment that the Indians had all been ruthless marauders who got more than they deserved, considering it was them who broke the peace, violating the original, early treaties to quit the lands they'd been assigned to go on killing and mutilating innocent white settlers. Sure, the Indians had been ruthless, terrifying, enemies, but Jim knew and would never forget that atrocities had been done by the Cavalry, too.

"It just bothers me," Jim grated in disgust to Blair one blustery March night that rattled the shutters on the windows. "It's not right to blame the Indians for everything that happened. God, listening to some of them, I think they'd give Rutherford a medal for what he did at Poplar Flats."

Shaking his head, Blair sighed, "Yeah, well, I guess Major Rutherford isn't the only man in the west who seems to believe the only good Indian is a dead Indian. The only difference is that he had the power to put his views into action."

Jim stilled at Sandburg's words, and then looked up at his friend. "What did you just say?"

"What? About Rutherford?" Blair asked. "Well, it's just that he could give the order to…"

"My God," Jim cut in, looking stunned. "I never thought…I just assumed…"

"Assumed what?" Blair demanded in concern, when Jim's voice drifted away.

Focusing again on his best friend, Jim shook his head and then swallowed. "When Rutherford gave me those orders, I assumed he'd received them from higher up. The orders were just too…contradictory to our former directions to subdue and restrain, with a view of engaging in peaceful settlements, if we could. No commander of a small, pretty insignificant outpost would just turn around and massacre people who had already surrendered unless directed to do so. But…what if I was wrong? What if it was all Rutherford? What if he made up those orders himself?"

"Wouldn't he have that right?" Blair asked. He hadn't had a lot of direct experience in the command structure of the military, being more an adjunct to the Union Army than a regular officer during the War, but from what he'd seen, officers could pretty much order their subordinates to do whatever they wanted done.

"No," Jim shook his head. "Oh, there's some discretion to deal with local matters, particularly in emergency or war conditions, but not to act contrary to higher direction with no just cause." He sat back in his chair as he thought it through. So far as he knew, there hadn't been many incidents like the massacre at Poplar Flats, where the military had exercised maximum force against what were considered 'civilians'… the noncombatants, the women and children.

"So…maybe Rutherford's higher command didn't issue the order," he mused thoughtfully.

"What difference would that make now?" Blair asked, wondering where Jim was going with this.

Leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees, Ellison explained, "After Poplar Flats, the Indians erupted in full-scale conflict across the west, leaving settlements and violating the terms of peace treaties. That conflict is still going on farther west - it's only ended here because the Indians had nothing left to fight with. I wasn't surprised when things blew up because I figured Running Deer had sent out warnings that the peace treaties couldn't be trusted, and that their people were in danger of being massacred, too, if they remained in the villages on land assigned to them by the military. That's why I thought the order was stupid, as well as criminal - if anyone escaped alive from Poplar Flats, then whatever fragile peace had been attained elsewhere would be thrown into question. And I was right - the conflicts got worse afterward."

When Blair frowned, not understanding, Jim clarified, "Don't you see, if Rutherford acted on his own, without due authority or rationale…he was in violation of orders, had instigated a criminal action and could be held accountable for the violent reactions on the part of the Indians. He'd be court-martialed, discharged dishonourably as a minimum - might even be sentenced to prison."

"But, the newspaper accounts I read indicated that the Indians, unprovoked, fired rifles on the Cavalry when they rode in," Blair reflected. "He could say he was just reacting…"

Jim had avoided reading any of the official accounts of what had occurred in Poplar Flats, so he hadn't known this was the rationale that had been put forward for the annihilation of the camp. "That's not possible," he replied flatly. "When Running Deer first surrendered, the terms included forfeiting all weaponry, except for the spears, knives, bows and arrows that could be justified as essential, to permit them to hunt for food. I supervised the surrender myself, and my men and I searched the whole camp to make sure we had confiscated all the rifles, sidearms and ammunition."

Grimacing, Sandburg muttered, "If everyone knew the truth you know, maybe they'd see that lies and murders occurred on both sides…maybe they wouldn't see the Indians as being the only wrongdoers, or somehow evil."

"Then maybe someone should tell them," Jim said grimly as he stood and began to pull on his coat.

"Where are you going?" Blair asked uncertainly, as he also stood. "What are you going to do?"

"I've held my peace about what happened for too damned long," Jim replied as he reached for his hat. "I thought it was the command structure that ordered that atrocity, but I'm beginning to think it was all that bastard's idea, and his alone. And I know just how to find out, and educate a few folks at the same time."

"How?" Sandburg demanded, scooting around Ellison to block his departure.

"Why, I thought I'd have a chat with Dan Raymond - give him a good story for the next edition of our local paper," Jim drawled as he smiled slowly down at Sandburg, and watched the wheels turn behind his friend's eyes as Blair figured it out.

It didn't take long before Sandburg nodded thoughtfully and, giving Jim a light push back out of the hall, he said, "Just wait up a minute until I get my own coat on. I think I'd like to hear this story, too."

Three days later, Raymond published a front page story in the Bitterwood Bugle that told of how a retired US Cavalry Captain, their own Sheriff Jim Ellison, had been riding across the prairie almost two years before, the morning after he'd retired with full honour after an illustrious career spanning more than twenty years. But his leave-taking was sidetracked when he heard the sounds of gunfire and screaming from the direction of the Indian settlement in Poplar Flats. Knowing the Indians there didn't have rifles or handguns, he wondered if maybe a rival band had attacked them. Setting out to learn what was going on, he arrived in time to see the Cavalry riding fast in the other direction, apparently chasing after some Indians. And then the story went on to describe what Jim had found in the camp in brutal detail, listing the number of dead women and children…and describing the tiny little girl with the cornhusk doll and a hole blasted in her chest.

According to the article, Ellison claimed not to know what had happened there, and had only heard later that the Cavalry had been reacting to being attacked. But he didn't see how that could have happened, as he'd personally supervised the confiscation of weapons from the camp only a few days before. It was a sad event, tragic, and the article went on to reflect that maybe atrocities had occurred on both sides, that in the emotional pitch of war, terrible things happened. The story concluded with the observation that peace had finally been attained in Kansas, at least, and hopefully a similar peace could be attained across the whole of the west. It was to be hoped, the last line said, that perhaps, if both sides tried to better understand each other, such terrible events would never happen again.

Raymond sent a copy of his article to Wichita, and it was reprinted there…and then it was sent to New York and Washington, reappearing in the large eastern papers.

Two weeks later, two senior military officers got off the stage in Bitterwood Creek. Seemed they were from the nation's capital, and they wanted a word with Sheriff Ellison to verify the facts in the newspaper story. Apparently, there were notable contradictions with the official report submitted at the time by Major Rutherford. They were hostile at first, angry that Ellison had put the military in a bad light, implying they'd somehow lost control in the tension of prolonged conflicts and fear, and had over-reacted to a modest threat.

"There was **_no_** threat," Jim asserted coldly, and then leaned forward as he hammered them with the truth. "The massacre was **_deliberate_**. I resigned because Rutherford **_ordered_** me to lead my men on an **_unprovoked_** attack against **_a peaceful, unarmed settlement_** and I refused. When he received my written resignation shortly after, he had me tossed in the stockade and I was held there for the rest of the night and until three hours after the troop had ridden out before dawn. The last time we talked before the massacre began, he led me to believe that the order was **_mandated_** to 'show the Indians a **_lesson_** ' so that others would understand their resistance would be met **_by maximum force_**. I didn't share that information with our local newspaper publisher because I was in uniform when I received that order and I wasn't about to abuse the confidentiality or trust of my commission - nor did I think that it would do any good for people to believe the military they trust is capable of such wanton betrayal and murder. I'd still like to believe there's some decency, integrity and honour in the institution."

"You believed the orders you received represented the views of **_Command?_** " Colonel Simmons exclaimed, offended, referring to the most senior ranks of which he was a part. "Major Rutherford had **_no_** authority to take such action, and from what you say about the settlement being peaceful, no legitimate reason to attack those people."

"If you say so," Jim shrugged. "I only know what he ordered me to do…and what was subsequently done. If there had been any indication on his part that he was in violation of his orders, I would have reported the incident formally to our seniors at the time. I think it's pretty clear, from subsequent events, that the Indians sure believed Poplar Flats represented the policy of the entire Cavalry."

The two colonels sat back and stared at him thoughtfully. They've reviewed his record before they'd come west, and knew he'd been a respected, dedicated and highly ethical officer who'd worked his way up the ranks based on effort and excellence.

"Why did you decide to tell this story now?" Colonel Mayberry asked.

"Because I'm sick and tired of hearing people self-righteously go on about how the Indians are the worst scum of the earth and can't be trusted, while the Calvary is uniformly held up as a shining example of noble integrity, courage and honour. I didn't violate my commission, but I could not stomach living with what I know to be a lie. Those innocent victims deserve the truth to be told, to bring some balance to what we remember about what happened. Right now, there's still tremendous resentment against the Indians, a belief that they are being better treated than is warranted. There's no appreciation that they were defending their land and liberty, and that they were taught, by the events at Poplar Flats, that they couldn't trust our offers of reconciliation and peace."

The two colonels asked him a few more questions, to ensure they were perfectly clear on his version of the events that had transpired. They were no longer hostile in their manner, but neither could he tell if they really believed him. Shortly after, their expressions impassive, they took their leave and, later that afternoon, they were on the next stage headed back east.

As they watched the stagecoach roll out of town, Sandburg asked, "Do you think they'll nail Rutherford?"

"Hard to say, Chief," Jim replied with a shrug. "They'll have to conduct an investigation. Get corroborating testimony from the soldiers in the attack about their orders, and whether or not they were fired upon first by the Indians. As a minimum, they'll be watching Rutherford and they may pull him back to a staff job in Washington - remove him from the opportunity of future field commands."

Blair nodded and then laid a hand on his friend's back. "At least now you know that the institution you believed in and served honourably wasn't at fault. It was Rutherford's decision alone, not official policy."

But Jim shook his head. "They're responsible - they promoted a man like him to command others. Too many senior commissions are still bought by wealthy fathers for unsuitable men," he said, his voice hard. "Maybe, someday, the military will only promote those who have proven to be worthy of command authority and privileges."

* * *

Late on a Friday afternoon in early April, a pack of riders rode of out the gray fog and drizzle that surrounded Bitterwood Creek, and cantered directly to the saloon. Wet droplets dribbled from the broad brims of hats that shaded their grizzled faces, and off their dark gray slickers as they dismounted. Apparently in no hurry to get indoors, they cast assessing looks along the main street, the disparaging tone of their muted mumbles and arrogant postures suggesting they found little that was impressive - except for maybe the bank. Turning, they pushed inside to find what amusement might be had.

Jim had heard them coming long before the shadowy forms first emerged from the swirling mist and, from behind the window in his office, he'd watched them ride in - ten men, rifles prominent in the stocks of their saddles. Though the rain had muted their words as they'd stood in front of the saloon, he hadn't missed their interest in the bank or their insolent manner. ' _Might as well check them out now, as later,'_ he thought resignedly as he pulled on his black slicker and reached for his hat.

Upon entering the smoky saloon, the lawman found quite a number of his fellow citizens wiling away the dreary afternoon before heading home to their suppers. The newcomers were clustered at the bar, some leaning their elbows back on it as they studied the other customers, slickers now loosened to reveal the six-guns slung low on their hips, while others called out raucously to the bartender, Moe, for attention. They were of varying ages, some middle-aged, their greasy long hair and stubble on their chins gray; others were much younger, maybe their sons…and the rest fell somewhere in between. One of the younger and scruffier riders surveying the place suddenly spat on the floor in disgust, as he turned to call out to another, his Southern accent dripping with offended scorn, "Dawson! They serve nigras in here!"

A man with graying, sandy brown hair, so long it hung almost to his shoulders, turned from the bar to survey the saloon. Leaning back on one elbow, affecting a kind of cocky nonchalance overlaid by shocked astonishment at the very idea of something so inconceivable, his chin lifted as he let his cold, flat eyes drift around the crowded room. The middle-aged stranger projected unmistakable, implacable and deadly threat. As the eyes of other men dropped from his own in the sudden silence of the saloon, he smiled in thin amusement, vastly enjoying the game of intimidation. But the cold eyes flared hot with hate when he spotted the robust black man unflinchingly returning his stare from the table across the room by the wall, not far from the doorway to the street. His voice resonated with scorn as he sneered, "Why, I see ya'll are correct, Sammy Joe - well now, _imagine_ that."

Henri Brown, sitting with Johnny Winston, carefully set down his mug of ale as he watched the little drama at the bar, his expression impassive though his eyes hardened as he stared the other man down.

Jim sauntered over to rest a hand on Brown's shoulder as he asked, his voice clear in the silent room, "You ready for another, Deputy?" Henri relaxed marginally, while Jim directed his own hard look toward the bar.

"No, Sheriff, not just yet, but thanks," Henri drawled in response.

Dawson snorted with contemptuous incredulity as he turned back to the bar, and waved down Moe as he challenged, "Ya'll want our business, or do ya want to keep servin' that uppity darkie?"

Moe narrowed his eyes as he looked from the lawmen to the stranger. Crossing his beefy arms, he replied calmly, "You're free to spend your money where you like - but my regulars don't have to put up with any o' your lip. D'ya want drinks or not?"

"Whoa, ho!" Dawson snickered derisively. "Well, since ya put it so plainly, sir, and since there don' seem to be any alternative in this one-horse, no-account town… sure, we'll drink your whiskey. Set 'em up."

Moe shook his head resignedly at the provocative words as he filled the shot glasses. These boys were spoiling for a fight, but some good firewater might mellow them out some - either that, or make them careless enough that he and the Sheriff, along with Deputy Brown, could settle up with them. A night in the local jail before chasing them out of town might teach them some manners.

Once he'd served the Southern 'gentlemen', he filled a mug of beer and carried it to Ellison, who had pulled up a chair with Henri and Johnny. Keeping his voice low, he asked, "How do you want to handle these loudmouths, Sheriff?"

"So long as they don't do nothin' more than talk, and otherwise keep to themselves, we've no quarrel with them. A man can't help being as dumb as a stick," Jim replied, his tone level. "But, I think I'll hang around for a while and see how it goes." When Moe nodded and went back behind the bar, Jim leaned over to Johnny, as he said, "I'd appreciate it if you'd let Doc know where I am."

"Sure thing, Sheriff," Johnny agreed readily as he drained his mug, happy to have a legitimate excuse to leave the saloon in a hurry. Though the piano had started up again, and the strangers were exhibiting interest in the scantily dressed ladies clattering down the wooden stairs along the back wall to offer the evening's entertainment, the atmosphere in the saloon remained tense.

"I don't mind going, Jim," Henri offered with quiet dignity, knowing his continued presence only aggravated the situation.

"Only if you want to, H," Ellison sighed, pushing his slicker back to give ready access to his guns as he leaned back in his chair. "Personally, Deputy, I'd be obliged if you kept me company for a while. Might need your help with these jackasses, if they get rambunctious."

Nodding, a twisted grin of appreciation for the support on his lips, the part-time Deputy settled back in his chair and unobtrusively ensured his own sidearm was easily accessible. "Always happy to oblige, Sheriff," he replied, as his gaze shifted back to the men at the bar.

Not long after, Sandburg ambled into the saloon, apparently relaxed and without a care in the world as he called to the bartender, "I'll have a beer when you get the chance, Moe."

"Coming right up, Doc," Moe shouted back over the din of the music and the shrill, coy laughter of the flirting women flaunting their wares, as Blair sauntered over to Jim and Henri to pull out a chair at their table.

Dawson turned, curious to check out the local sawbones, scowling when he saw where Sandburg had chosen to sit. Blair held his gaze as he smiled back winningly, as if daring the man to say anything. Dawson's eyes narrowed but he shook his head as he turned away.

"So those are the charming drifters Johnny told me about," Sandburg muttered, the false smile gone as he turned to Ellison and Brown. "They look like trouble."

Jim nodded. "In addition to insulting our colleague here, I saw them eyeing the bank when they came in," he replied in a low murmur. Shifting his gaze to Henri, he added, "I think we'll need to keep a watch on them until they ride out."

Just then, Sam Sloane, the banker, came in with his two best customers, Simon Banks and Joel Taggart. Seeing Jim, Blair and Henri, they all headed toward their table, calling to Moe for a jug of beer. Simon picked up on the tension amongst their friends first. "Something going on here?" he asked, looking around and spotting the strangers, stiffening as some returned his gaze with obvious loathing. "Ah, I see," he muttered as he leaned back in his chair.

Joel had followed his gaze and nodded in his turn, but Sam was a little slower on the uptake. "What's wrong?" he asked, uncertain.

"New boys in town," Jim replied as he tilted his head toward the bar. "Southern drifters who don't know the War is over and that all men are free - _and_ they exhibited a potentially unfortunate interest in the bank when they rode in."

"Ah," Sam frowned, tensing as he gave them a closer look.

"It's alright, Sam," Ellison assured the banker, "we'll be keeping a close watch on them 'til they leave."

Over by the bar, the strangers were nudging one another as they pointed out the presence of yet two more dark-skinned men in the saloon. Dawson shook his head and was about to say something when Moe, standing nearby as he filled the pitcher of ale for his customers, said with quiet authority, "I meant what I said. You want to drink here - you mind your manners. Simon Banks and Joel Taggart are the richest ranchers in the area. It's a free country now - best you get used to that fact."

"Ya gotta be kiddin' us," one of the others protested as he cast a disgusted look over his shoulder at the older men. " ** _They're_** ranchers?"

"For nigh on twenty years," Moe replied steadily, giving the men an even look before picking up the tray of mugs and the full pitcher to deliver them to the ranchers and their banker.

"Well, if that don' beat all," Dawson muttered with deep disgust, turning to lean against the bar as he stared at the men at the table by the wall. Pulling a grimy pouch of tobacco and papers out of his shirt pocket, he started rolling a cigarette, and noticed the hostile looks of the ranchers as he did so. As he licked the paper and then lit up, he regarded the two allegedly very rich men with contempt. Blowing an elaborate smoke ring, he continued his arrogant stare, noting their tension until one muttered something to the other, and they both turned away in disgust. He was sure they were former slaves - he'd seen that look of hostility before on the faces of tobacco-picking ninnies who forgot to hide their anger. Twenty years they'd been living here rich and happy…twenty years…and suddenly he stilled as his eyes narrowed and his head tilted in concentration. They were older, certainly, but he wouldn't ever forget the faces of the slaves he'd helped to search for after they'd made their run - nor had he ever really stopped looking for them in all of the last twenty-two years. _Simon_ Banks. _Joel_ Taggart. _Son of a bitch!_

Suddenly, he erupted as he strode toward the table, his hand reaching for his gun. **_"You lazy, stupid sons of whores!"_**

But Jim was faster, drawing as he stood. **"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!"** he bellowed.

Furious, Dawson ripped his searing gaze from Simon and Joel, lifting it to Jim's steady glare as he shouted, **_"Them runaways murdered my pappy!"_**

"I _seriously_ doubt that," Ellison replied dryly. "Now, just **_settle down!"_**

"You're the law here - you have no choice but to put them behind bars!" Dawson argued, outraged. "I'm tellin' ya the gospel truth. They was slaves and they murdered my pappy when they done runned off! I'll see them hang for it!"

"BACK OFF!" Jim shouted again. "NOW! Or I swear, I'll run you out of town."

Joel was shaking his head slightly as he looked intently at Simon, who was looking just as steadily back at his partner. Blair was watching both of them. _"What?"_ he whispered, his eyes flashing to Jim and the now very still men at the bar who had turned as one to back their leader. Henri hadn't stood but, surreptitiously, he'd drawn his sidearm and was holding it ready under the table. Sam was frowning and shaking his head, not believing a word of the obviously deluded raving lunatic's claims. Everyone else in the bar seemed torn between ducking for cover and listening in avid silence. Most of the good citizens of Bitterwood Creek had long suspected Joel and Simon had once been slaves, some with hidden contempt and not a little jealousy, others with sad compassion and admiration for what they'd achieved.

Simon cut a quick look at Sandburg, and then shifted his gaze to the Sheriff. "Jim, maybe we should have a little talk," he murmured quietly, while Joel compressed his lips and looked down at the table, clearly very unhappy.

Not taking his eyes off the troublemakers, Jim muttered back, his words a low groan, _"Aww, don't tell me…"_

"'Fraid so," Simon cut in with a sigh. Once Dawson had started shouting, both he and Joel had taken a closer look at the man. About their age, he had the look of his daddy - mean and arrogant. Sounded like him, too, with that foul mouth. Once they recognized him, they remembered him - a nasty little bully who'd strutted around ordering the slaves to do whatever demeaning or obnoxious chore occurred to his twisted, dangerously intelligent, mind.

"Oh, you've _got_ to be kidding," Sandburg protested in disbelief.

"First off," Jim said then, as he glared at Dawson and his gang, his voice brooking no nonsense from anyone, "everyone is going to just settle down while I look into these serious accusations. Second, let's make no mistake about it, _gentlemen_ , slavery has been **_abolished_** and there are no longer any such thing as **_'runaways'_**. You will exercise courtesy when addressing **_any and all_** citizens of this town. I trust I make myself clear. If not, I can offer you accommodation in the jail while you ponder my advice."

Flushed with fury, Dawson was breathing heavily as he struggled to bring himself under control. Finally, his jaw tight, he grated, "Fine, Sheriff - but ah will swear on a stack of Bibles that them niggers are murderers!"

Jim shook his head. Very quietly, he drawled menacingly, "You really are bucking for a bunk in my jail."

"All right!" Dawson growled. "Ah'll watch ma words…just so's you do your job, _Sheriff_." His hands in the air, he backed up to the bar. After he'd cast a sharp, sidelong look at his men, a wordless command to stand down, they visibly relaxed their threatening stances and turned back to their drinks. But all kept an eye on Jim and the others at the table against the wall.

Not trusting them, Jim didn't holster his weapon, but asked softly, "You want to tell me what's going on, Simon?"

"Maybe we should go to your office," the older man sighed. "It's a long story."

Nodding, Jim waved them out ahead of him, and then backed out himself to follow them down the street. Seeing that Blair, Sam and Henri had also left the saloon, Ellison suggested, "Sam, I think it's time you were heading home to supper - and Henri, I'd like you to keep watch out here. If they look like they're going to start anything, come get me."

"Sure, Jim," Brown replied as he dropped back to take up a position to watch through the saloon window. Sam looked like he was about to protest but as he met Jim's steely eyes, he thought better of it. Tipping his hat a little sullenly, he headed on home.

When the four men reached the lawman's office, Jim waved the others to chairs while he took his own seat behind the desk. "What the **_hell_** is going on?" he demanded, looking from Simon to Joel and back again.

Simon had pulled off his hat, and was staring at it as he swallowed. Taking a breath, he straightened to look Jim in the eyes. "More than twenty years ago, Joel and I were slaves on a plantation in West Virginia. One day, I had more than I could stomach of our overseer's…insults and bullying behaviour. I, ah, mouthed off at him, and he came after me with a club. Joel grabbed the club from him and tossed it away. The bastard pulled out his whip and ordered Joel to tie himself to a post, and then he began whipping him." Simon had been trying to relate the story with calm matter-of-factness, but his voice faltered as he cut a look at his best friend. Hell, as far as he was concerned, his brother. Licking his lips as he turned back to Ellison, he grated, "I thought he was going to kill Joel. So I hit him on the back of the head with a rock and got us both the hell out of there."

"So, you don't know if he was dead or alive when you ran," Jim clarified steadily, though he felt more than a little sick.

"No," Simon sighed as he shook his head. "I don't - and Joel was unconscious when I carried him away, so he had no idea what had happened."

"And that bastard in the saloon is that man's son?" Ellison asked, his voice tight.

"Yeah, we both recognize him. He pushed his weight around when he was a kid, 'round our age, I suppose," Joel cut in. "He looks just like his daddy."

"I see," Jim sighed as he looked away, thinking about the situation.

"Jim! It was obviously self-defence! Sounds like he would have killed them both!" Blair protested, mistaking Ellison's hesitation for doubt.

Leveling a look at his partner, Jim replied repressively, "Don't you think I've figured that out for myself?"

Blair nodded apologetically as his eyes fell, while both Simon and Joel stared at the Sheriff with mingled relief and disbelief. Jim shook his head at their expressions. "For God's sake. I've known the two of you for almost two years. Hell, Simon, you were acting as sheriff here when I took over the job. You're not a stone-cold killer," he explained with a tone of aggravation. "But - what I believe and what we can prove are two different things. Were there any other witnesses? Did that joker actually see you hit his father?"

"No, no one else was in that back corner of the field," Simon replied. "All you've got is my word."

"And mine," Joel jumped in. "I swear, that fool was going to bash Simon's brains in. He had a fiery temper and no restraint…he'd killed other slaves for less reason than Simon here being smart-mouthed."

"Okay," Jim nodded. "I believe you, both of you. And, since there are no other witnesses, there isn't anyone to say otherwise. I'm going to officially accept your statement that it was self-defence. But that won't necessarily solve this little problem. Junior over at the saloon isn't likely to take the results of my investigation with a grain of salt and then quietly ride on out of town."

Blair cocked a brow and grimaced, while Joel and Simon nodded soberly. This was undoubtedly a long way from being finished.

* * *

After directing the two older men to stay in his office, Jim signaled to Blair to follow him and they headed back to the saloon.

"What do you think is going to happen?" Sandburg asked quietly, his tone heavy with concern.

"I don't really know, Junior, but I've got a bad feeling," Ellison murmured in response. When they reached Brown, Jim peered in through the windows as he asked, "So, any problems?"

"Loud-mouth is blatherin' on to his buddies about how two worthless slaves killed his daddy," Brown replied in disgust, able to hear Dawson through the open door as he watched from the window. "And some of 'em have been askin' questions about the ranch, and where it is. I'm sorry to say, there're some that were only too eager to tell them everythin' they wanted to know." It both grieved and galled him at how many of the locals were listening avidly, some even shaking their heads in sympathy while supplying the drifters with all the information they wanted.

"Wonderful," Jim grunted. "Both of you, wait out here…"

"Jim…" Blair protested.

"I mean it, Sandburg - you wait out here," Ellison growled. Blue eyes clashed with blue, but Blair finally, grudgingly, nodded.

Satisfied, Jim turned and entered the saloon. Immediately, the rough strangers turned to stare at him belligerently. Pointing at Dawson, Jim said, "I didn't get your name."

"Ambrose Dawson, at yer service, Sheriff," the older man drawled back sarcastically. "Them two murderers in jail?"

His jaw tight, Jim narrowed his eyes as he flicked a look around the saloon. The piano player had again stopped the music as everyone listened in, ghoulishly fascinated by the drama being played out. His lips thinned as he gave a tight shake of his head before turning back to Dawson. "I'd like to speak with you outside, Mr. Dawson…alone, if you don't mind."

"Why, ah'm sure ah have no secrets from all ma good friends heah. Speak yer mind, Sheriff," Dawson taunted as he lounged back against the bar.

Jim gave him a hard look but nodded sharply. "All right, then," he said soberly. "It seems that you have somewhat misrepresented what happened some years ago," Jim began with firm calm into the silence of the saloon. When Dawson began to bluster, the lawman held up his hand for silence. "I'm sorry for your loss. But, I have two men who swear to me that they acted in self-defence. It seems your father was beating them when the incident occurred."

"Ma pappy had ever' righ' to beat them darkies!" Dawson burst out. "They's slaves! They ain't got no rights! I'm a'tellin' ya - they's murderers!"

"That's **_enough_** ," Jim ruled, his voice rising slightly in command. "There is **_no_** slavery in this nation, not any more. You are referring to two upstanding men, who have lived impeccable lives in this community. Frankly, sir, their word means a whole lot more to me than yours does. So, unless you can produce an objective witness who was there when it happened, to contradict their stories…well, we're finished here."

"They's slaves when it happened!" the older man shouted, furious. "Ah demand justice!"

 ** _"So do I,"_** Jim cut back sharply. "And it's **_my_** job to render it. As I understand it, your father had a habit of killing the people under his direction - that gives credence to the statement of self-defence. This is **_over_** , Dawson. I suggest you and your friends move along."

"If'n they's so innocent, then why did they run?" the irate Southerner demanded indignantly.

Snorting, Jim shook his head, as he drawled sarcastically, "No doubt, also in self-defence." Lifting his chin toward the others at the bar, he reiterated. "Good-bye, Dawson - to you _and_ your men."

Sullenly, flushed with anger, the older man glared at Jim for a long, hard moment. Everything stilled inside the saloon and, as he watched from the shadows outside the window, Henri pulled his gun in case things went ugly fast. But Dawson cursed and then looked back at his men. "Let's ride," he grated and then stalked out into the night.

The gunmen followed him, but nobody believed it would end that easily.

Jim cast another look around the saloon, daring anyone to challenge his ruling, but none did. Nodding, he turned to follow the drifters outside, where he stood watching as they mounted up and rode out at a gallop.

"Think they'll be back?" Sandburg asked as he and Brown moved to stand beside Ellison.

"Oh, I doubt they're really gone," Jim sighed, as he crossed his arms and frowned.

* * *

"Look, don't give me a hard time about this, okay?" Jim exclaimed, exasperated. "If you don't want to put up at our place for a couple of days, then I'm sure you'd find the hotel very comfortable!"

Blair stood with his hands on his hips, a determined expression on his face that clearly backed up his partner, while Henri perched on the desk behind the sheriff, quietly listening. Joel and Simon grimaced as they shook their heads, not wanting to fight with their friends.

"Jim, I know you're only worried about our safety," Joel began in a placating tone to calm the atmosphere in the Sheriff's Office, "but Simon and I stopped runnin' and hidin' a very long time ago. We're about to start the spring roundup, and you know what that means. We need to be headin' back to the ranch."

"A day or two won't make that much difference," Blair retorted, though he was also careful to keep his tone reasonable. "Besides, we all know your men can handle the roundup without you out there supervising them. We're concerned about your safety!"

"Yeah, we know," Simon put in, gruffly grateful. His voice low, he continued, "But the fact is, even if I didn't know it until tonight, not for sure, I **_did_** kill that man, and to be honest with you, I didn't care at the time if I did or not. The man was pure evil." Sighing, he shook his head as he went on, "What if they attack the ranch while we're standin' around here arguin'? Huh? Folks out at the Gold Ribbon don't even know there could be trouble headin' their way. Much as we appreciate your support - and believe me, we really do - as well as your concern, we're goin' home."

"You can't keep us here against our will," Joel added quietly.

Jim squinted as he gave them both a hard look. "Don't tempt me," he muttered. Finally, he snorted as he threw up his hands. "Okay, I give up. I'll ride out with you."

"Me, too," Blair said staunchly and, before Jim could protest, Henri chimed in as he stood, "Me, three."

"Sandburg, I don't think…" Jim began only to be cut off.

"I have two words for you, Sheriff," Blair interjected belligerently, as he flicked up two fingers, one at time to emphasize his words. "Deputy. Doctor." When Jim gritted his jaw and looked away, obviously unhappy, Sandburg continued in a milder tone. "If there's likely to be shooting, it's also likely there'll be a need for my services. If we're going, then let's go."

* * *

As soon as the three townsmen had packed up gear to remain overnight at the ranch, and Blair had restocked his medical bag, they headed out into the misty night. They rode in a tight cluster, Jim slightly in the lead with Blair close behind him. Joel and Simon rode side by side with Henri following them closely. And they maintained a fast pace. None of them wanted to be caught on the empty prairie by ten angry men out for their version of justice. Jim extended his hearing, but was frustrated by the light rain and mist which confused the sounds around them and dampened his ability to determine if there were any threats nearby.

Though it was a tense twenty minutes, they arrived at the ranch without incident. Reining in outside the bunkhouse, they all dismounted and Simon led the way inside. His hands, surprised at the sober delegation that entered so unexpectedly, immediately stilled their card games or looked up from the tack they were mending, clearly wondering what was going on.

Joel came to stand beside Simon as the taller rancher briskly laid it out for their ranch hands. "Earlier today, ten Southern drifters rode into town. Turns out, one of them recognized Joel and me." He paused for a moment, and then took a deep, determined breath. "Years ago, we were slaves on a plantation in West Virginia. When the overseer threatened to kill us, we fought back and I killed the man. We ran." Sighing, he swallowed as he held his men's eyes. "The Sheriff has ruled it self-defence. But we fully expect this man, Dawson, who accused us of murderin' his father, will seek his own revenge. He and the men with him look like they may be gunslingers, so the threat is very real - things could get hot around here, real soon. You're all good men but this isn't your fight, so if any of you want to pull out, well, no hard feelin's. We'll pay you off and you can leave as soon as you want."

He fell silent and waited, though his eyes dropped away, not wanting to seem as if he were challenging them or would think them cowards if they wanted no part of the battle that was probably coming. There was a long minute of silence, and then Rafe spoke up, his tone careless, "Hell, it's been a while since I've been in a good fight. Let 'em come."

The others rumbled their agreement, and that seemed to be that.

Joel and Simon both blew out breaths laden with emotion. As they looked at every man in turn, their gratitude clear in their eyes, Joel said quietly, his voice thick, "Thank you, men. We appreciate your support." Cutting a quick glance up at Simon, he continued, "We'd better post watches through the night. Any volunteers?"

Every one of the fifteen men raised a hand into the air, some of them grinning, tickled to see the two older men a little lost for words, others more solemn by nature but no less glad to show their unconditional support. Most of them had worked with the ranchers for years, and all of them both liked and respected the owners of the Gold Ribbon Ranch. Though surprised to hear them say anything about their pasts, let alone admit they'd been slaves -'cause that had to be a memory neither one of them wanted to revisit - most of the men weren't all that surprised. Simon and Joel's firm egalitarianism and aversion to being called 'boss', their now slight but still noticeable southern accents and the old thin scars of what looked like pretty bad whippings crisscrossing their backs, made visible when they pulled off their shirts when working hard on blisteringly hot days, had been clues enough. Any man who had a problem working with black men, ex-slaves or not, didn't sign on to work for them in the first place.

Simon and Joel smiled slowly, while Jim, Blair and Henri stood with their arms crossed as they leaned on the wall behind them and grinned cheerfully, not having expected anything less of the staunch ranch hands they'd come to know over the years. "Alright, you clowns," Simon laughed as he waved at them to lower their hands. "Rafe, you and Tex have the first watch. Saunders and Nelson, spell them for the second. And Reynolds and Taffy - you guys get to greet the dawn."

"Can you tell us any more of what we might expect?" Rafe asked curiously as he reached for his gunbelt and buckled it on.

Jim moved forward to answer. "There are ten men, and all of them look like they live on the thin edge of the law, if not on the far side of it. They're well armed…both handguns and rifles. They're wearing gray slickers - look like old Rebel Army issue. Don't fool around - if you spot anything, hear anything, raise the alarm. One shot, and the rest of us will come running. We don't care if they know we're on to them. I'd rather discourage them and have them ride away, than have a firefight."

Rafe and Tex nodded as they pulled on their oiled capes, jammed on their hats and strode into the night.

* * *

Nothing happened that night, or through all of the next miserable, rainy day. When the next night passed equally quietly, despite the lack of any attack, or maybe because of it, the tensions of the men grew as they kept wary watch.

Shortly after dawn on the second day, Blair followed Jim out onto the verandah where they both stood sipping their mugs of coffee. The rain had finally ended, but the sky was still heavily laden with dark clouds that scudded ahead of the damp, ever-present wind.

"You think they've given up and just ridden off?" Sandburg asked quietly.

"Not hardly," Ellison grunted. His eyes searching the horizon, he squinted in thought. "They're out there, somewhere. I can feel it," he muttered. "Could be they're waiting until we relax, expecting us to figure they took my advice."

Blair sniffed and shivered a bit against the early morning chill. "So - what do you want to do?"

Jim shook his head, beginning to wonder about the security of Bitterwood Creek. They'd bet the drifters would attack the ranch, but…he stiffened, fully alert as he strained to see more clearly. "There's a rider coming fast from town - damn it!" he swore when he recognized the rider. "It's Sam."

"The bank!" Blair exclaimed as he followed Jim's gaze, squinting to try to see the distant rider.

Sighing, Jim shook his head. "I should have expected this and left Brown back in town to watch out for them. I just never figured…"

"Don't beat yourself up, man, none of us did - you were worried about lives, not money," Blair murmured in reply. "Doesn't mean they won't hit the ranch next."

* * *

Sloane was furious that his bank had been left unprotected and made no bones about saying so. They'd broken in during the night and gotten away before anyone was the wiser. The only good news was that nobody had gotten hurt.

"They didn't blow the safe?" Jim asked, surprised.

"No," Sam sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck. "One of them must be a safe-cracker. Figured out the combination."

"Uh-huh," Jim grunted. "Look, Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't expect them to hit the town. But we'll get them, and get your money back."

His ire spent, Sloane nodded. "I know you will. Just made me so damned mad!"

"We're sorry, Sam, to have brought this trouble on you," Joel offered, but Sloane waved off the apology.

"Like as not, they'd've tried to rob the bank anyway from what the Sheriff noticed when they first rode in," Sam replied evenly, but then gave the older man a crooked grin as he added, "'Sides, it was mostly your money they took, anyway."

Taggart chuckled wryly as Simon snorted. "Sorry, stupid bastards," he muttered. Looking up at Jim, he added, "Looks like they've just given you good reason to call up a posse, Sheriff."

"That they have, Simon," Jim reflected, but he didn't look happy about it.

"What's bothering you?" Blair asked.

"I get the feeling they're leading us around by the nose," Jim replied, crossing his arms. "While we go chasing over the countryside, they're likely to hit the ranch."

The others thought about that - and had to agree that the reasoning was sound. "We've got enough men to split up, some staying here and the rest of us riding with you, Jim," Simon offered. "And I've noticed before how good you are at trackin'," he added, with a direct look at the Sheriff. "Chances are, you'll pick up their sign and we can come up behind them."

Blair's brows quirked but he just chewed on his inner lip as he studied the ground, while Jim gave Simon a quick narrow look, but nodded. "Okay," he agreed. "You check with your men and get me half a dozen volunteers. H, you'll ride with me. Sandburg," he said, quirking a finger at his best friend, "let's take a little walk."

Giving Jim a suspicious look, a stubborn glint coming into his eyes, Blair nodded and followed Jim toward the barn.

"Don't even suggest it," Sandburg muttered belligerently as soon as they were some distance away from the other men. "You are NOT going to leave me behind."

Jim cast a look up at the cloud-strewn sky as if silently asking for strength and then he turned to face his partner, his hands on his hips. "Be reasonable, Chief," he returned, trying to keep his tone calm. "You don't carry a gun." Blair started to protest, but Jim held up a hand. "Just hear me out, okay?" When Blair just glared at him silently, he continued, "I'll admit that I think it's marginally safer for you to be here - the buildings offer some protection in the event of a concerted attack and there'll be eleven good guns here if it does come to a shootout. They might well hit before I pick up their trail…"

"You need me to make sure you don't zone!" Blair argued, unable to hold his tongue, though he kept his voice low as he glanced around to ensure they were essentially alone. There were men in the yard and at the nearby corral, but none close enough to hear. "I _know_ you - you'll be listening as hard as you can, trying to hear past the sound of the damned wind. Or, you'll be staring out across the prairie trying to make out some speck in the distance - either way, you could easily get so focused that you lose track of everything else."

Jim bowed his head, having to acknowledge the possibility, but he was increasingly concerned about the ruthlessness and cunning of their adversaries and he didn't want Blair out on the open prairie with little cover if a gun battle occurred. Lifting his gaze to Sandburg's, he argued, "You've taught me how to use two senses at a time, to keep me from getting lost in one of them. I'll…I'll make sure I'm either listening to one of the others or maybe touching one, you know, a hand on the shoulder or something, while I do my thing. Besides, if they attack here, there may be need of a doctor."

"The posse may need a doctor, too," Blair muttered darkly, but he looked away and he took a deep breath, thinking about the options. Finally, he shook his head as he turned back to Jim, "I'm sorry - I just think it's too dangerous for you to go out after them without somebody who knows what's going on with you. If you zoned at the wrong time, they…they could shoot you, Jim. Kill you. Either I go with you or - or you have to let someone else in on this so they can watch you. Simon, H, Joel, whoever."

Jim stiffened, not liking the feeling of being pushed. "You know I don't want…"

"Yeah, I know," Blair cut in. "But face it, man - I think Simon's pretty much got your number and has for a long time. People notice that you can see, and hear, things they can't. Not everyone, no - but Simon has worked with you too closely ever since you came to town. And I think Joel and H are pretty clued in, too, that something is up with you."

"I really don't need this right now," Jim grated.

"Need what?" Sandburg protested, but then forced himself to calm down. "Look, I know you feel… awkward about being different. But I don't always understand why. They're your friends! If you know they're picking up stuff, and they haven't been treating you any differently, then why do you think they'll go all strange when you tell them straight out? If anything, they probably wonder what the big secret is, and why you haven't explained how you do what you do, long before now." When Jim's jaw tightened, Blair shook his head and sighed. "All I'm saying is, I won't let you head out there without the right backup."

"I'm a big boy, Sandburg," Ellison snarled, turning cold, angry eyes on his friend. "I don't need a fulltime babysitter! And, in case you forget, I managed to cross a monotonously white prairie more than a year ago, _all on my own_ , when I tracked you down."

Stung by the anger, Blair's eyes darkened as he said softly, " _Forget?_ I'll _never_ forget what you did, not for as long as I live. You **_know_** that. I'm…I'm just worried about you, okay? Is that so _wrong?_ Aren't you worried about me? Isn't that what this little discussion is all about?"

His jaw tight, Ellison breathed heavily through his nose as he struggled for calm. Though he sincerely regretted the hurt in Sandburg's eyes and voice, he didn't want to lose track of his objective, which was to keep Blair as safe as he could. Not in the least bit happy about being forced into choices he wasn't ready for, but recognizing that short of hogtying the kid, he couldn't force him to stay behind, he finally grated, "All right, dammit. We'll do it your way. I'll talk to Simon."

Blair quirked a brow but didn't say anything.

His temper once again flaring, Ellison demanded, "What? You don't trust me to talk to him?"

Holding up his hands for peace, Blair hastily replied, "No, that's not it. I believe you. But, uh, maybe it would help if we both talked to him. I can coach him a little on what it is I do to help you stay focused."

Throwing his hands in the air in capitulation, Jim growled, "Fine. Then let's go talk to him."

* * *

In the ranch office off the kitchen, Simon heard Jim out, casting a quick glance from time to time at Blair, who was standing silently against the wall, with his thumbs in his belt, in the den inside. Ellison was clearly uncomfortable and having trouble maintaining eye contact as he stumbled through his explanation of his sensory abilities, and the fact that, sometimes, it helped to have backup in case he lost track of what was going on around him.

Jim fell silent, after indicating that he'd like Simon to go out with the posse but without, so far, mentioning what Sandburg did to assist him.

Banks nodded solemnly. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised," he rumbled, but a teasing glint came into his eyes as he added, "Carrots can only do so much, you know? I figured there weren't enough in the whole _world_ to account for some of the tricks I've seen you pull."

Ellison looked chagrined as he shook his head, while Blair lifted a hand to cover his irrepressible grin, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Turning to Sandburg, Simon went on, "And I presume you're the one who usually helps Jim out?" When Blair nodded, suddenly sober, Banks asked, "So what am I supposed to do, exactly?"

"Uh, basically, when Jim's concentrating really hard, I keep a hand on his back or arm, to keep him grounded," Blair replied with a sidelong look at his partner who was studiously ignoring both of them. "And I talk really softly, unless he's trying to hear something. Then, I pretty much just rely on touch. If Jim starts to zone, er, get too deep, I call his name and maybe squeeze his shoulder. That's usually enough to bring him back."

"Zone?" Simon frowned in memory. Turning to Jim, he asked, "Is that what happened a couple of years ago, back in town? When I had to shake the daylights out of you to wake you up?"

"What? When?" Blair asked, surprised as he shot Jim a narrow look, never having heard of that particular incident before.

Jim cast his partner a silent, wry apology as he nodded, and replied to Simon, "Yeah, pretty much."

"I don't know, Jim - it took me quite a while to bring you back that time. Scared me, to tell you the truth. I was afraid you were having some kind of seizure," Banks hesitated. "I'm not the kid here…"

"It'll be fine," Ellison cut in. "Likely there won't be any problem at all. But Sandburg insists on riding with the posse unless someone else…"

"Ah, now I understand," Simon interjected. "I wondered why you'd finally decided to let me in on what was going on." Turning to Blair, he asked, sincerely concerned, "You really think I can do this?"

"Yeah, I think so," Blair replied. "It's not that complicated - I just wanted to be sure someone was out there with Jim, who'd understand if any problem does arise. But, like Jim said, probably nothing will happen."

"Okay," Simon agreed. When Jim nodded and mumbled, "Thanks," as he turned toward the door to leave, Simon added, "And Jim - thank you for trusting me with this. I know that wasn't easy for you."

Ellison paused and then turned back. "Simon - it's not that I don't trust you. That wasn't the issue," he replied slowly, painfully honest. "It's just that…I haven't been comfortable with letting folks know. Some might think I'm a freak…"

"Maybe," Simon allowed. "But I think most would be damned glad to know they've got such a remarkable man as their sheriff. Likely would make 'em feel even safer than you already do."

Lowering his gaze, Jim bit on his lip as he thought about that. But - he still didn't want everyone to know.

"I think it's best if most people don't know," Blair cut in. When both men looked at him, one with questions in his eyes, the other with relief, he explained, "Right now, Jim has an edge when he's patrolling town or dealing with troublemakers. If word of his talents got around, and you could bet it would, there'd be some who'd come to town just to challenge him - and others who might try to use his sensitivities against him." Casting a quick look at Jim, he added, "Sudden loud noises, or very bright light can cause Jim a lot of pain and distract him briefly, long enough to leave him vulnerable."

"I see I've got a lot to learn about this stuff," Banks muttered but he nodded. "I take your point, Blair, and I guess I have to agree. Just seems a shame, somehow, to have to hide them. Must make things difficult from time to time, when folks notice things out of the ordinary and you can't explain."

Jim nodded silently, but he was impressed that Simon had hit on one of his core regrets. It had been instinctive for him to hide the reality of his senses from everyone but Sandburg, who'd figured out what was going on before he'd understood it all himself - but he'd often felt uncomfortable living with the lies his reticence required both of them to tell to their friends. Blair just looked grateful that Simon understood Jim so well, and so compassionately.

As he stood beside Joel and watched the posse ride out less than half an hour later, Blair continued to feel anxious about not going with his best friend, but he also felt relieved that someone else finally knew Jim's secret - just in case the day came when he wasn't around to help anymore.

Watching the younger man out of the corner of his eye, Joel astutely read the mixed emotions on Sandburg's face. Though the good doctor could play poker with the best of them, he had to concentrate on keeping his thoughts and emotions hidden; in unguarded moments, the young man was naturally, unconsciously, very transparent to anyone paying attention. Shifting his gaze back to the disappearing riders, Joel murmured, "So Jim finally told Simon the truth of what he is…I'd guess it was the only way you'd agree not to go with him, and no way would he want you out there with those vipers lurking around."

Sandburg started in surprise, but quickly looked away.

"It's okay, Blair," Joel continued quietly, "I don't expect you to say anything - it's Jim's decision who he tells. But Simon and I, and I'd expect Henri, too, figured it out a while ago. Jim's a Watchman."

Sandburg turned to look at Joel, his eyes wide with surprise. "What do you know about Watchmen?"

Before responding, Joel waved to his men, sending them to their positions around the ranch compound, Rafe up to the top of the watertower, others deployed to the roofs of the main house, the barn and the bunkhouse, while the rest rode the perimeter. Jeb Strong was with them, Suzanne having been sent, protesting, back to town with Sam. Once the others set about their assignments, Joel turned to loop an arm around Blair's shoulders as he guided him into the house. "I think, maybe, it's time we had a little talk," he said with a warm smile of reassurance. "Just so's you know, finally, that you're far from alone in looking out for Jim."

They went into the kitchen, where Joel poured two mugs of coffee from the pot on the old, black woodstove. Waving Blair to a seat at the plain but well-polished table, Joel joined him there.

"When I was a little'n, back on the plantation, I used to love sittin' around the fire late at night, listenin' to the old ones tell us about where we'd come from, who we were, so we wouldn't ever forget," Joel began, the reflection of fond memories in his eyes. "They'd either been brought on the boats themselves, or had heard the stories directly from others who had." Shaking his head as he focused on Sandburg, he asked, "Did you know the British didn't usually capture slaves directly, but bought them from other black men in Africa?"

Blair shook his head. "No, I didn't."

"Well, that's the way it happened," Taggart carried on. "The tribes of Africa, or the nations, if you'd rather call them that, were like people everywhere else in the world, rivals for power and wealth, fighting battles of conquest over one another. But, to hold onto what was won, or to weaken an enemy state, one side would take the leaders, and their families, hostage - make them slaves. And what better way to get rid of your enemies than to make a profit while havin' them shipped to the other side of the world? So, as it happened, a great number of the slaves who were brought to this country were the best and brightest of their homelands."

Blair nodded, "Makes sense, and explains a lot of things." When Joel quirked a brow in question, he went on, "Well, for one thing, it explains how your people had the strength and endurance to survive in a situation that was soul-destroying. The Spanish and the British both tried to take the local indigenous peoples, the Indians, as slaves and both European cultures felt they had a God-given superiority over the peoples of other races. So, the terms of slavery were different here than in, say, Rome - much more brutal and oppressive. Most of the Indians died, unable to live in chained captivity, which is why they started importing slaves from Africa. I've read a lot about oppressed peoples over the ages - guess you could call it a kind of personal quest for understanding. Slavery has been an institution since the dawn of time, as a form of imposing the military superiority of the conquerors and breaking up communities or acquiring cheap labour. But, it hasn't always been as oppressive as it could be in too many places here, although galley and mine slaves lived under incredibly brutal conditions. But in Rome, for example, they had Greek slaves, who were exceptionally well educated, and who often sold themselves to a rich master as the tutor for the family's children in return for a life of relative ease. Slavery was a matter of political and economic rights, not spiritual or intellectual superiority, the way it too often came to be seen in the Americas." Suddenly aware he'd been talking when he wanted to listen, Blair flushed in embarrassment. He bobbed his head as he apologized, "Sorry, I didn't mean to run off at the mouth. You were going to tell me about Watchmen."

"Yes, I was," Joel replied pensively, thinking Blair's own traditional heritage had its own unhappy past - it was no surprise the kid had wanted to understand oppression and how people survived it. Coming back to his purpose in sitting down with Sandburg, Joel continued, "Well, the old ones told us all about our history, our lost cultures and traditions - story after story about the way things had once been. Some of my favourite stories were about the Watchmen, rare and special people, usually men but not always, who had magical senses. They could see and hear, touch, smell and even taste things ordinary folks couldn't. They became the Watchmen for the tribe, the protectors. When Simon and I realized some of what Jim can do, we talked about it and decided that these Watchmen must occur in every society, though we'd not seen one ourselves before now. Simon had heard the same stories I had, when he was young - and that's why I suspect Henri has heard them, too. The stories helped us survive, helped us be strong."

"I see," Blair murmured, looking away to focus on his mug of coffee; although fascinated and dying to learn more, he couldn't ask - Joel was talking about Jim, and Blair couldn't let on that he was at all interested in such things as Watchmen without betraying his best friend's trust.

Joel smiled gently, and then he said, "The stories told us that the Watchman was never alone, not unless some tragedy happened. He or she always had a companion, someone who understood their magic and helped them - called them back if their spirits ever wandered too far, before they were forever lost. The Watchman and the Companion were closer than brothers and nothing could come between them, so great was their love and loyalty for one another. We've figured, for a long time now, that you're Jim's 'companion'."

Blair took a deep breath and slowly shook his bowed head, not knowing what to say. It was only too obviously ludicrous to try to maintain any kind of pretense - but he'd _promised_ Jim he'd never tell anyone.

In the silence, understanding it, Joel said with warm sincerity, "I told you outside - you don't have to say anythin' at all. But Simon, H and I are only too glad to help, any way we can. You aren't alone in wantin' to look out for him. So long as you know that, I'm content."

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Blair looked up at the older man as he said quietly with heartfelt sincerity, "Thanks, Joel. I appreciate that. Thanks for telling me about some of the old stories." He paused a moment and then added, "Uh, if anything should ever happen to me, and, well, if there's an urgent need to get into my patients' files to help someone…I've kept pretty good records. I mean, just in case."

"That's good to know, thank you," Joel replied soberly, appreciating the trust and respecting it, especially given the close calls Sandburg had had in the last couple of years. "But we all will also do our best to make sure nothin' bad happens to you."

* * *

It was mid-afternoon before Jim was able to sort through all the muddy trails leading in and out of Bitterwood Creek, but finally, he knew he'd found the tracks they were seeking - but they were hours old and headed in the wrong direction. Standing from where he'd been crouching in the pretense of seeing them better, Jim reflected that he missed Sandburg and the luxury of usually only doing stuff like this in his friend's presence. He could sit up on Lobo, for one thing, and not have to be constantly dismounting so the other men wouldn't realize how good his vision really was.

"The tracks are headed toward Wichita," Simon observed, then asked, "What do you think they're up to?"

"Trying to mislead us, I suspect," Jim muttered as he gazed over the horizon toward the city to the west, and then shifted to look south, toward the ranch compound, which was now about twenty miles away. "I just don't think they're going to Wichita, not yet, anyway. I'm getting real tired of being jerked around by these guys."

"So - what do you think we should do, Jim?" Brown asked. "Follow them or try to intercept them?"

Mounting up, Jim replied, "I think we should cut cross-country over your range, Simon, angling back toward the ranch. I'm pretty sure we'll cut their sign and it'll save us from having to waste time following in their hoofprints."

Shaking his head, Simon cautioned, "If we angle across too sharply, we might miss them…"

Ellison nodded in agreement as he led off at a swift pace across the rolling prairie, cutting a shallow angle toward the distant ranch. They found the tracks of the outlaws doubling back about an hour, and turned to follow this time, as the intended destination was now very clear. But it was getting late, the sun already sinking in the west, and they were still at least fifteen miles from the ranch. All felt an increasing urgency to catch up as quickly as they could - darkness still came early, and the persistent heavy cloud cover would hurry the onset of dusk.

* * *

The Southern outlaws were cunning. They'd robbed the bank as a lucrative distraction, expecting that it would split the defenders' forces, evening up the odds. With plenty of time to lay their false trail to the west, they'd circled wide before heading back toward the Gold Ribbon, knowing any posse would eat up precious hours tracking them down. They'd been back in the vicinity of the ranch since early afternoon, leisurely taking their positions around the compound, far enough away to remain unnoticed, but close enough that their own field-glasses could easily pick out the sentries in their sector of attack. The sunless day was a gift, pure and simple, the light too feeble to reflect off their binoculars. As the day waned, they cautiously made their way closer, so that as utter darkness fell, they were within easy striking distance. Some carried unlit torches lashed to their saddles, ready to be lit when the riders got close enough to the wooden ranch buildings and the stacks of hay. The dampness was regrettable, but one torch tossed into the open barn door would easily catch on the hay inside, throwing the defenders into disarray.

They had the advantages of time, of surprise, of darkness and of being on the attack. They could plan their specific targets, each man clear on what he was to do, while the defenders could only try to anticipate, wait and react. When the signal came, the first shot of an alert sentry, all of them would already be encroaching closely on the ranch and had only to lash their horses to thunder across the remaining distance, a few pausing only to light their torches as they drew within shooting range of their targets - the barn…and the main house.

* * *

Just as the light was fading, still a good five miles from the ranch, Jim pulled up and cursed softly.

"What is it?" Simon asked as he turned to squint down at the tracks in the sloppy ground that was not yet covered in fresh, tall grass. "Shit," he muttered, seeing the problem.

"They split up," Jim told the others as they pulled up around him and Simon. "Looks like they're going to attack from different directions. With the lead they have, we'd better head straight back - with luck, maybe we'll get there about the same time."

The riders set off, thundering across the gentle rolling swells until it got too dark to ride so fast without risking the legs of their horses in hidden gopher holes. But, though the men with them urged a more rational pace, Jim kept Lobo at a full gallop, Simon racing unhesitatingly on his heels, and the others fell in behind.

But they were still almost a mile away when the first shot split the night - not quite half a mile away when the orange-red flickering reflection of fire began to dance on the low-lying night-black clouds.

* * *

They'd waited all day, the hours passing with tiresome slowness as the twelve men watched the horizon all around the ranch compound, tense with their expectation of attack. The day was dull, the gray overcast sky melting into the bland sameness of the winter-starved prairie, wearying eyes that were straining to see, and casting a dismal, depressing mood of foreboding over those who had nothing else to do but wonder and worry. Every man was concerned not only about the impending attack that could come at any time, but also about the posse, wondering whether they'd managed to catch the outlaws - and if so, with what result?

The silence stretched on and on, broken only by the high-pitched keening moan of the wind, not loud but on the edge of perception, irritating and unnerving. The damp sank into the bones of the watching men, particularly those who lay still on the high rooftops and watertower, so as not to attract the attention of anyone who might well be watching the ranch, making the men stiff and achy.

Hour after hour, the minutes trickled past and tensions mounted.

The sky grew dusky as the unseen sun sank away in the west, taking what dreary light there'd been with it. It grew dimmer, the distances harder to make out, until it was completely dark with not even the sparse light of the stars, let alone the silver glow of the moon to aid those who still waited.

Still, the men on the rooftops and those riding the perimeter maintained their position. Though they could no longer use their eyes, they could still listen and their strategically diverse vantage points gave them some advantage - they hoped.

On the verandah, Blair leaned against a pillar, huddled in his heavy cloth coat as he stared into the darkness, a worried expression on his face. He'd been told in no uncertain terms that he was to stay at the house, inside preferably, but no further outside than a pace or two from one of the doors, so that he could hurry back to safety when the attack came - if it came. Though he deliberately did not carry a personal weapon - an unconsciously courageous stance when most men went armed and life was full of danger - at times like this a sense of helpless futility weighed upon him, as it had often during the War, making him question his principles and their worth. It was devastatingly humiliating to feel he had to be protected by other men; worse, that his inability to contribute to their collective defence might well put the others at increased risk.

And he was very worried about Jim and the others. They'd been gone for hours. Knowing better than anyone the skills Jim could bring to bear on the tracking of the bandits, he wondered how quickly the posse could have caught up with the gang. In the protracted silence of the day, he'd had ample time to imagine all sorts of terrible possibilities, all of which only made him feel sick with useless helplessness.

Feeling his tension as if it were a tangible force, Joel spoke from somewhere close in the darkness. "He's all right, Blair…"

"How can you be so sure?" Sandburg murmured back, his voice tight with anxious concern.

"I don't know - I may be 'way off base here - but I honestly think you'd know, you'd feel it, if something happened to him," the older man replied quietly, knowing voices could carry on the quiet prairie.

Blair thought about that, and wondered if Joel could be right. Before he could answer, a shot reverberated through the darkness.

The Dawson gang was coming!

* * *

Jeb Stone had heard the telltale soft suck of hooves lifting from the soggy ground, somewhere close on his left. It only sounded like one horse, but it was one too many when there shouldn't have been anyone but him on that stretch of the perimeter.

Already wheeling his mount around to race back to better cover at the ranch than the open prairie offered, he shot off his pistol to warn the others that it had begun.

But the marauders weren't coming from a single direction, and the shot was misinterpreted as the sentries wheeled toward it. It was only a few, critical seconds, but more than enough for Dawson's raiders to sweep in from each point of the compass and six more directions in-between…

* * *

As long as they'd waited and tried to be ready, the immediacy, ruthless speed and strategy of the attack threw the defenders into initial confusion. Joel wheeled sharply and physically shoved Blair into the dark safety of the main house, ordering him down and away from all the windows as Joel crouched by the window, his rifle ready, his two handguns primed and within easy reach on the floor beside him. The first shot was quickly followed by a flurry of others, from every direction, as the attackers ruthlessly closed in on the sentries they'd watched during the day. Men cried out as bullets ripped through skin and muscle.

The thunder of hooves rumbled louder and closer, and then sudden flares of fire split the darkness, the men carrying the torches already racing with deadly deliberation toward their targets.

A matter of seconds after the first shot had been fired, five of the ranch hands were down with bullet wounds, two of them already dead. The remaining defenders recovered quickly, but were still handicapped by the darkness and outwitted by the marauders. The cowboys fired at the sound of the thundering horses, unable to see well enough to pick out precise targets - but the raiders had leapt from the backs of their mounts, to run the last few yards silently while their still racing mounts drew fire.

Rafe nailed one man at the barn entrance, but the torch had already been thrown, catching in the dry hay strewn on the earthen floor, and quickly spreading to eat hungrily into the wood and piles of roughage in the empty stalls and mangers until the whole structure was blazing, flames licking around the chinks in the walls and pitched roof, so that the defender up there, Taffy, had to jump for his life. Fire, brilliantly alive, pulsed heat into the night and - its only good outcome - threw the immediate area into stark relief. Finally, the defenders were on equal footing and could fire at will with deadly accuracy at their adversaries.

Rafe brought down another, and then another, while Joel exercised his own sharp-shooting skills from the house, cutting down two men in rapid succession. But he'd heard his man on the roof, Tex, yell out before he fell, and knew the perimeter of the house was now unguarded. There were too many still coming in the yard outside to worry about the back door, but the hairs on the back of his neck lifted in tense alert to ambush from behind.

* * *

Dawson had deployed his men with cunning and care, to leave him the best chance to get his own personal target - Joel Taggart and Simon Banks, though he doubted both were still be at the ranch, but whichever one was would most likely be making his stand at the main house. After his gang had split up to ride toward their positions around the perimeter, he'd ridden closer and had verified his assumption with a cold smile of satisfaction when he spotted Joel with that kid, the so-called local doctor. Taggart carried a rifle, but the younger man seemed as unarmed as Dawson remembered him being in the bar three nights before.

When the assault began, Dawson headed straight for the back of the house, but he didn't light the torch he was carrying on his saddle until after he'd gotten close enough to pick off the man on the roof. Slipping from his saddle, taking the torch with him, he crouched in a silent run toward the back door. It was, of course, locked and barred. No surprise. Swiftly, he put a match between his teeth and broke a window into the back kitchen, smashing it so that he could dive inside. Rolling to his knees, he took the match and scraped it on the floor, lit the torch and tossed into the stack of wood by the stove. And then he was running lightly, almost soundlessly, through the dark house toward the sound of a rifle firing in the front.

* * *

Blair, crouching on one knee by the end of the sofa across the large front room from Joel, heard Tex cry out as he was wounded, and then the sickening thud as he hit the ground outside - but his low moan signaled he was still alive. Bile burned in the back of Sandburg's throat, and he was edging his way toward the window closest to where Tex had landed by the front right corner of the house, intent upon slipping out to haul the wounded cowboy into the house for safety. Keeping low to avoid being hit by the bullets crashing through from the front, as well as to avoid distracting Joel who was now only a few feet away, he heard a window somewhere in the back shatter. Stiffening, he turned toward Joel, who had jerked at the sound, but who was too occupied with another man charging the front of the house to immediately determine the danger from behind.

Out of patience with principles that were great in general and just plain stupid in the face of immediate threat, not only to himself but to Joel, Blair shifted direction to gain access to one of Joel's handguns, his eyes riveted to the dark square of hallway beyond the comfortable room. The burning barn cast enough light to see a few feet past the doorframe. Sandburg was reaching for one of the six-guns when he saw the dark outline of a man step into view.

"JOEL!" he cried as he grabbed the gun and lunged forward to push Taggart out of the way, even as a shot exploded from behind.

There was a sudden flurry of shots as more guns exploded outside, and the thunder of horses closing in from the north. Joel grunted just as Blair caught him, rolling with the older man to the side, and then coming up, between the shooter and his friend, lifting Joel's weapon as he saw the attacker's gun swinging toward him.

* * *

Jim and the rest of the posse swept into the battle, guns blazing. The deadly fury of the arriving forces quickly outnumbered the few vicious raiders who were still standing, drawing the battle to a swift end. The acrid scent of gun smoke mingled with the sweeter odours of burning wood, hay and oats, the air thick and hot with ash. In the garish light of the flames, bodies lay crumpled, littering the ground. For a moment, there was only silence but for the cracking wood and roar of the fire in the barn \- and then the posse, along with the remaining unwounded defenders, burst into action - checking the bandits to ensure they were all dead, running to aid their wounded comrades, sickened to find four of them also dead. Still more raced for buckets to quell the raging fire, only to realize it was a lost cause and that there was another fire glowing from the back of the main house.

Jim and Simon had leapt from their horses to race up the steps of the house, concerned that no one had come out to meet them. His eardrums still resonating with the recent sounds of rapid gunfire, Jim couldn't hear anything from inside - but his gut clenched as he realized he could smell blood.

Together, the two big men bounded across the verandah and shouldered in the wide double doors, dropping to a crouch as they belatedly realized that an enemy might yet lie within. Light from the fire spilled inside and, as they edged around the door, they spotted their friends.

"Dear God!" Simon cried out as he and Jim lunged forward.

* * *

Looking up at Simon's shout from where he crouched, both hands pressing down hard to stem the out-rushing tide of blood from the back of his wounded friend, Blair snapped, "Good - you're here. Get him upstairs and ready for me. I'll get my instruments into boiling water and I'll be up as quickly as I can. Keep pressure on the wound."

Blair swung away from Joel, ceding his place to Simon, grabbed his bag from where he'd had it near him by the sofa, and then wheeled out of the room, stepping over the dead man sprawled in the hall as if he wasn't even there.

"Ah, Joel," Banks choked as he took in the sight of his partner's blood soaking through the shreds of the shirt Sandburg had ripped open to expose the wound, and already pooling on the carpet under him as he pressed his hands down over the bullet hole. "Joel?"

But the unconscious man was beyond responding, unable to offer any comfort to the big man who trembled with fear for him, his eyes glazing with helpless tears.

Jim had taken in Joel's position by the window, the rifle still clutched in his right hand, and the wound in his back as he turned toward the dead man. He stilled for a moment as he stared at the vacant eyes of Ambrose Dawson, and then at the blood darkening the front of his chest. As he turned back to help Simon with Joel, he saw the handguns, one still by the window where Joel had probably been positioned, the other dropped by Joel's left side, only, Joel was right-handed - and he knew then, without doubt, what must have happened. For the span of an eternal second, his heart clenched, realizing how close it must have been and what Blair had been forced to do. And then he bent, one hand briefly gripping Simon's shoulder to steady him, as he reached to lift Joel's legs. "Come on, Simon. We need to get him up to his bed."

Lurching into action, Simon grabbed Joel's shoulders to turn him. "I've got him," he said thickly as he lifted his brother - in every sense that counted - up into his arms as he rose to his feet. As he turned toward the hallway and the stairs beyond, he saw the dead man, recognizing him as Jim hastily pulled Dawson's corpse out of the way. Banks' lips trembled and he felt a sudden sharp stab of nausea, but he forced it back down as he strode out and hastily carried Joel up the broad wooden steps, following Jim who had bounded up ahead.

By the time Simon reached Joel's room at the back of the house, Jim had pulled back the blanket and cover sheet, and was quickly layering the thick towels he'd found - in the open cupboard by the washstand - over the bottom sheet to absorb most of the blood, leaving a couple near to hand for Simon to press over the wound. As Simon strode in, Jim turned to swiftly light the oil lamps on the tables by the bed and on top of the high chest of drawers. Carefully lowering his partner to the bed, Banks gently, if swiftly, turned him into a three-quarter prone position to expose his back but still allow Joel some ease of breathing. Then, folding one of the towels into a thick wad, Simon resumed pressure on the still heavily bleeding wound. Looking around at Ellison, he gestured with his head toward the full bookcase along one wall under a window.

"Jim, grab a couple of handfuls of those thicker books," Banks directed, his voice low and hoarse. "I remember H telling me that Sandburg had the bottom of your bed propped up when you were hurt so bad last fall. He said it helped fight off shock."

Nodding tightly, Jim did as he was bid. It was a strain to lift the bottom of the heavy wood-framed bed alone, but he scarcely noticed it as he held it up while one-handedly stacking books under one carved claw foot and then the other. While he was occupied with that task, Simon pulled the blankets back over as much of Joel's body as he could, to keep his friend warm.

Standing, Jim moved to the opposite side of the bed, his face pale with worry as he looked down on Joel's lax features and listened intently to check out his heartbeat. Fast, too fast, but still strong. Bending, he eased the ruined shirt from under Taggart's body, and then fumbled to loosen his belt. Pulling the blanket and sheet out from the bottom of the bed, he pulled off Joel's boots and socks, but left the jeans alone for the time being, reluctant to jostle the unconscious man any further. Besides, he reasoned, the jeans would help keep his lower extremities warm.

Suddenly, there was nothing more he could do in the room. He looked up at Simon, his heart aching with his own sorrow and twisting more sharply at the wretched grief on Banks' face - and the glazed guilt in the eyes that lifted to meet his.

"Dawson wanted me," the older man grated. " ** _Me_**! **_I_** killed his damned father, may they both rot in hell. **_Me. Not Joel_** …" His voice broke in sob of anger and self-loathing.

Jim shook his head. "You **_saved_** Joel's life that day, Simon - you **_know_** that," he replied quietly but firmly. "Dawson didn't care which of you laid out his father - he wanted you **_both_** dead. This is **_not_** your fault."

Simon shook his head helplessly as he bit his lip to stop its trembling. "I'm scared, Jim," Banks admitted brokenly. "I don't want to lose him."

"He's still alive, and he's a strong, determined man," Jim replied as he turned to the door, intending to see if there was anything he could do to help Sandburg. "Don't give up on him yet."

* * *

Smoke was thick in the downstairs hall when Jim clattered down the steps. Coughing, his eyes watering, he pressed through it back toward the kitchen, knowing Sandburg had headed in that direction. By the time he got there, Rafe and Reynolds were tossing buckets of water to douse the fire that had climbed up the wooden wall beside and behind the stove, and then turning to stamp out smoldering sparks on the floor. A somewhat singed Sandburg was hastily washing up at the sink, his back bare as he'd stripped off his bloodstained and smoke-blackened shirt. Rafe looked up as Jim came in, cutting a quick glance at Sandburg's scarred back and then shooting an angry, questioning look at the Sheriff. Waving it off, Jim crossed the spacious room, broken glass crunching under his feet.

Just finished rinsing the lather off his face, arms and body, Sandburg looked up and around at the hand gripping his shoulder, and then lifted his gaze to Jim's eyes.

"Joel's hanging on," Jim told him, frowning at his partner's fire-reddened face.

 ** _"Joel?"_** Rafe exclaimed, not having realized the rancher had been shot, while Reynolds, the cowboy helping him to contain the kitchen fire, gaped at Jim. "How bad's he hurt?"

"Bad enough," Blair grated as he turned toward the pot boiling on the stove to fish out his instruments onto a clean towel he'd found in a cupboard along the far wall. "Dawson shot him in the back."

"What can I do to help?" Jim demanded.

Over his shoulder, Sandburg directed, "Find a bottle of whiskey, bring it and my medical bag and a jug of hot water upstairs. I'm assuming there's a wash basin up there?"

"There is," Jim replied as he poured the steaming kettle into a large pitcher he found sitting on the kitchen's worktable against the wall under the windows. Taking it and Blair's bag, which was tossed across the room, away from where the fire had been burning, he headed back through the haze of smoke to the front room, where he knew Simon and Joel kept their whiskey in a side cabinet. Blair was just turning up the stairs, a clean towel enclosing his instruments clutched in his hands. And for the first time, Jim saw the singed hair on his chest and the angry reddened skin.

"What the hell did you do?" he demanded as he pounded up the stairs after his best friend. "Walk through the fire to put your instruments on to boil?"

"Basically," Blair called back as he turned into the hall and loped along it to Joel's room. "It was a help, in a way. Let me see what I was doing. Once you've dropped off that stuff, find out how badly the others are wounded. See if they can all be brought into the house and then come and let me know the extent of the injuries."

Jim gritted his jaw and shook his head as he quickly followed the doctor down the hall.

* * *

Blair, with Simon's assistance, was already well along with the surgery by the time Jim hastened back to report to him.

"How's he doing?" Ellison asked as he came into the room.

"Good, he's doing good," Blair replied steadily as he cut a quick look up at Simon, who was gray with fear, and then glanced quickly at Jim before returning his attention to his work. "How many others and how bad?" he asked.

"Four dead and five wounded on our side," Jim replied tightly as he came closer to watch Blair work, marveling at the sure and steady speed of his nimble fingers. "Five gunshot wounds, one leg, three shoulders and one arm. Two of the wounded also have injuries from falling off the roofs of the barn and the house. Tex was shot in the shoulder and it looks like he's got banged up ribs and a broken arm. Taffy Larkin has a broken leg from having to jump off the barn when it suddenly went up in flames underneath him."

"God," Blair murmured, shaking his head as he finished closing the wound, dusted it with herbs and then covered it with a thick pad. Only three of the men defending the ranch had escaped the attack unscathed. "The gang?" he asked then.

"All dead," Jim told him.

His lips thinned, and then Sandburg nodded once. Grabbing a roll of linen from the table beside him, he looked up at Simon as he instructed, "Help me get the soiled towels out from under him and then we need to wrap this around him. I want him on his back to keep pressure on the wound, propped on a couple of pillows to help him breathe more easily. Jim can help you get his jeans off, and then I want a couple more blankets put over him."

Jim moved forward to help support Joel's body while they pulled away the towels and layered down clean ones. "I can help Simon bind the wound. You go see to the others. Given they weren't too badly hurt, it was easier to take them all to the bunkhouse where they can be cared for together."

"Good, thanks," Blair nodded as he hastily washed the blood off his hands. Turning back to Simon, who'd been utterly silent and gray throughout the surgery, he asked quietly. "Simon, how're you doing?"

Banks swallowed as he kept his eyes on the task of binding the bandage around Joel's torso. "Is he really going to be all right?" he asked, his voice tight with strain.

"Yes. Like I explained during the surgery, the bullet hit him high, between his shoulder blade and spine. No bones were shattered. There was a lot of blood because an artery got clipped, but the nerves and tendons look all right. We got the hole in the artery closed and the bullet out pretty fast," Sandburg replied steadily as he dried his hands and moved to grip Simon's upper arm firmly, reassuringly. "He'll need lots of rest and lots of fluids…you know the drill. But, I **_promise_** you, he's going to **_live_** and I expect he'll be just fine."

Simon blew out a breath and lifted his damp eyes to Sandburg's steady gaze. "Then, I'm fine, too," he replied, his voice unsteady, and his eyes remained haunted with thoughts of the men who'd died on their behalf. But, he cleared his throat and said more strongly with a deep and abiding sincerity, " ** _You_** did the fast work, Blair - I thank God, and you, that you were here to help him so quickly."

Sandburg nodded and then grabbed his bag as well as the bottle of whiskey and the towel rolled around the now bloody instruments. In a flash, he was gone, clattering down the stairs to deal with his other patients.

Simon and Jim worked quietly until they had Joel settled. Banks dragged the armchair by the bookcase over to the side of the bed and sank into it with a sigh.

Jim poured him a glass of water from the fresh jug Rafe had brought up after Blair had left, and Ellison was pretty sure it was something Sandburg had requested before heading off to the bunkhouse. As he handed it to Simon, he asked, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Simon's hand was still trembling as he took the proffered glass and gratefully drank it down in one long swallow. Looking up at Jim as he handed it back, he said, "I suppose you've also figured out what went down with Dawson?"

Ellison nodded as he returned the glass to the tray on the low cabinet by the washstand. Adding the jug of water to the two glasses, he carried it around Simon to the bedside table, where he saw Blair had left a small vial of laudanum for when Joel woke. "Yeah, I think I have," he replied as he lifted his gaze to Simon's.

"Take care of that kid," Simon directed tightly. "When he slows down, he's going to be hurting. Those burns looked sore and, knowing him, he's likely to react to killing Dawson, however necessary he knows it was."

Jim sighed as he looked from Banks to Joel. Turning back to Simon to pat the older man's shoulder as he moved toward the door, he said huskily, "You got it, Simon. I'll take as good care of my brother, as you'll be taking of yours."

* * *

It was well past midnight before Sandburg finished stitching up and splinting his last patient. Jim had worked with him, holding retractors and passing him instruments or medicines as he requested them. Rafe and Brown had done the running - cleaning the soiled instruments and setting them to boil again as Jim and Blair finished bandaging or splinting, so they'd be ready for the next patient; bringing water to Blair and Jim when their voices got raspy and dry; tending the already treated patients as they woke, giving them the mixture of laudanum and water to ease their pain; running over to the main house for more towels and linens when the supply in the bunkhouse ran short, and Rafe fished out his own bottle of whiskey when the first one ran dry.

As Blair worked, Jim watched him and frowned at the lines of pain on his face that seemed to etch deeper as the night wore on. He was pale; almost gray, by the time he finished the last treatment. But whenever Jim quietly asked him if he needed a break, he just shook his head and muttered that he was fine.

Finally, they were done. Though Blair had cleaned his upper body between each surgery, his jeans were heavy with the fresh and drying blood of each man he'd worked on, starting with Joel. When he almost stumbled in his exhaustion as he straightened away from splinting Tex's arm, Jim reached out quickly to grab him, to steady him…grimacing when Sandburg winced as his burned skin protested the firm grip. And then Ellison frowned as he felt the faint tremble in Blair's body.

"Okay, time to look after the doctor's injuries," he said with a no-nonsense voice. "We need to get something on those burns."

Blair nodded as he turned, murmuring, "Would you grab my bag? I'll need it over at the house."

Jim took the freshly cleaned instruments from Rafe, loading them into the leather medical bag and followed Sandburg out. His best friend had wandered out ahead of him, and was now limping slowly across the yard between the blackened, still smoldering, ruin of the barn and the house. Loping a few steps to catch up, Ellison looped an arm around the shorter man's shoulders, taking some of his weight to help him across the remaining distance.

As they entered the front room, Blair paused. "Could you get out another bottle of whiskey?"

"Why, you planning to get drunk now?" Jim asked, teasing lightly but worried about his unusually quiet partner.

Looking up at Jim, Blair gave him a wan smile as he replied, his voice sounding suddenly very thin, "Funny, Jim. No, it's just that I've got one last wound to clean out - just a gouge, really, but…" He'd just laid a hand over the blood staining his left hip, when his voice failed and he swallowed hard - and then slid toward the floor.

"Blair!" Jim gasped with a sudden surge of fear, as he dropped the bag and grabbed Sandburg, easing him down.

"'S'okay, not serious," Blair whispered, sounding dazed. "Bullet grazed my hip. I put a pressure pad over it, but it's still bleeding a bit." He blinked slowly, seeming unaware that Jim was working on his belt and pulling down the blood-soaked jeans far enough to check out the wound. "Too much…runnin' aroun', I guess," his voice faltering as it faded. "Wound kep' gettin'… irritated. No' serious…don' worry…"

"Sonofabitch," Jim cursed under his breath when he found the deep, angry gouge that still seeped blood into a bloody dressing. Sandburg's jeans had been ripped by the bullet, just below his belt. In the darkness and confusion, camouflaged by his blood and that of others, it was scarcely noticeable. Lifting his eyes to Blair's, he found his partner giving him a slight smile of reassurance.

"Really, 'm fine," he murmured, his words slurring. "'m jus'… li'l tir…" And then, as if to prove it, his eyes drifted shut as he slipped into unconsciousness.

"I'm going to kill you when you wake up," Jim grated as he grabbed Blair's bag and then heaved his friend into his arms to carry him upstairs to the double bedroom guest suite they used when they stayed over at the ranch.

* * *

Blair woke to sun streaming in through a window that usually wasn't on that wall in his bedroom; it was confusing but he was still glad to see it was finally shining. Blinking, he sorted through his memories as he looked around the room, placing it at the ranch, and then he saw Jim drowsing on the chair by his bed. By then he'd remembered the events of the day before and pushed himself up on his elbows. He had patients to attend to, wounds to check for infection, dressings to change.

He'd only gotten that far up when Jim snapped, as he leaned forward to push Blair back down, "Where do you think you're going?"

Finding himself flat on his back despite knowing he'd tried to resist, Blair looked preoccupied as he replied, "Got to see my patients, Joel especially," he muttered, and then looked up at Jim. "Why the hell am I so damned weak?"

Ellison shook his head as he poured a glass of water and helped Blair drink. "Why are you 'so damned weak'?" he echoed sarcastically as he sat back down, his expression stormy. "Well, let's see. How about never really recovering from almost dying last year? Or, maybe it was working yourself to exhaustion all winter. Wouldn't be running into a fire - you only got a little singed. How about working over six other men while you were bleeding? Oh…and there's the small matter of your spleen not being there any more and the danger you face from infection - not that that concerned you much as you left the wound on your hip untended. Could be all that - could also just be, as you slurred last night just before you passed out, that you're 'jus' a li'l tired'."

Blair nodded thoughtfully, then hazarded a grin, "Yep, could be all that, but I was probably just really tired when…"

"This isn't a joke, Chief," Jim slammed back as he got up to pace the floor. "The others know what to do - if there's a real problem, they'll come and get you. Otherwise, you're going to rest. Since you don't have the sense to take care of yourself, I intend to stay right here to make sure you don't go anywhere, unless it's a true emergency."

"Jim, I'm not stupid," Sandburg snipped back, deciding to try another tack. "I knew the gouge was an annoyance more than anything and could wait until…"

"An 'annoyance' that made you pass out," Jim growled. "Some 'annoyance', Sandburg. I guess if the bullet had lodged in your hip that would have been **_really_** inconvenient. Which bullet was it, by the way - the one that got Joel as you tried to roll him out of the way? Or the one Dawson shot at you?"

"How did you…oh, never mind," Blair sighed, and then admitted reluctantly, wincing in anticipation of his friend's reaction to the near miss. "The second bullet - I fired just before he did and I guess it threw off his aim."

But Jim paled visibly and then he sat down. What the hell was he doing? Yelling at the kid when he'd finally just awakened? Making Blair tense in readiness for more abuse? When Sandburg looked at him with concern darkening his eyes, Jim shook his head tightly and then his gaze dropped as his shoulders slumped and he bowed his head. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You didn't need that…outburst. You did everything right - saved Joel, killed Dawson, and took care of everyone else before you let yourself relax."

"Scared ya, huh?" Blair asked quietly.

Struggling to rein in his raw emotions, Jim nodded as he blew out a long breath. "Yeah. It's easier to get angry and yell than…deal with the fear, I guess." Sitting back in the chair, he scrubbed his face with his hands and then looked at Blair. "I'm the one who really screwed up - it didn't help that you're always pushing your limits - but I gave Dawson the upper hand and then let him consistently trump me, all the way along the line. To top it off, I left you in a position where you had to kill him to save Joel and yourself - and could have so easily been killed…"

His jaw tightened as he shook his head and looked away.

Pursing his lips, Blair cocked a brow as he observed mildly, "Well, I guess you've been awake most of the night. Had to have been, to have time to come up with that load of shit."

"Chief, I…" Jim began, but Sandburg cut him off.

"No, Jim, stop," Blair directed firmly. "You have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. I've known that since you tried to take the burden of what happened at Poplar Flats onto your own shoulders, when **_none_** of it was yours to bear. I think it goes with being a Sentinel. But I won't lie here and listen to you berate yourself for ensuring Joel and Simon were safe, or for leaving me in the safer of two uncertain situations, while you went after the bad guys. It's pure, unadulterated bullshit, Jim, and I won't stand for it. Hell, you arrived here last night in the nick of time to save our lives."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the only one with 'an overdeveloped sense of responsibility'," Jim sighed. "You drive yourself too hard, Blair. You got burned last night…"

"Very minor," Blair cut in.

"You left yourself bleeding for hours…"

"Not badly, just a little…"

"Risked infection, when you know you can't do that…"

"I put some of Whispering Waters' herbs on it before I covered it with the pressure dressing…" Blair snickered, beginning to find the debate funny.

But Jim wasn't quite finished, having saved what was likely the worst hurt of all, for last. "Killed another man to protect Joel…"

"Yeah, and I'd do it again," Sandburg snapped, no longer amused as he looked up at the ceiling. "Don't sweat it, Jim. The only thing I **_did_** do wrong in this whole sorry affair was not pick up a gun a hell of a lot sooner. Maybe then, Joel wouldn't have been shot in the first place."

Ellison's eyes narrowed. That wasn't the reaction he'd expected. Shifting forward, he gripped his partner's arm, lightly in deference for the still pink burns, but needing to make contact. "You're not wrong, kid, for wanting to avoid shooting other people. You are a healer, not a killer. To walk unarmed in this place and time takes a great deal of courage."

Blair's jaw tightened and, when he turned toward Jim, his eyes were flashing with anger - at himself. "That's fine, Jim, and I appreciate what you're saying. 'Fine', so long as it's only my life I'm being so 'courageous' in risking," he grated, sarcastically emphasizing the quality Ellison had attributed to him. "But it's not 'fine' when others are risking their lives to protect me, and I won't do the same for them. Every man in the Dawson gang was a stone-cold killer. I don't like to take another life, but believe me, I can live with the two I've taken, and I could have lived with having taken a few more last night."

"Good," Jim replied earnestly, "because I'd hate to see you waste a shred of grief on any of them. But don't change who you are because other men are evil. Because…because you're not the one who has to change. You're not wrong to stand as an example of peaceful solutions until there is absolutely no other option to survive but violence."

Blair blinked rapidly as he swallowed hard, his lips tightly compressed. But the shadows in his eyes lightened and he gradually relaxed. Nodding slightly as he held Jim's steady gaze, he finally said, "Thanks."

"Okay, glad we got that straight," Jim relaxed as he sat back in his chair. "Just don't do that ever again."

"What? Kill someone like Dawson?" Blair asked, now very confused.

"No, not that," Jim waved off the idea. "I told you, you were right to kill him. No, fall over, pass out and scare me half to death. That 'that'."

Chuckling at the straight look on Ellison's face, knowing his best friend was pulling his chain, Blair replied with light good humour, "Okay, sorry, I'll try to do better in the future."

"You do that," Jim replied, but a smile played on his lips and danced in his eyes now that he knew for sure that Sandburg was fine, really fine. Just a little tired.

But Blair's eyes clouded as he remembered something else he had to share with his best friend. Concerned, Jim leaned forward again. "What is it, kid? What's wrong?"

Blair squinted at him for a moment, and then told him, "You're not going to like this, Jim. I didn't say anything, I swear to you. But - it seems the old slaves used to tell the young ones stories about life in Africa, about their culture and traditions, so they wouldn't forget who they are - stories about Watchmen for example - _and_ their companions. Simon, Joel and probably Henri, too, have been on to both of us for a long time."

When Jim just stared at him, his eyes losing focus as he considered the surprising information, Blair hastened to add, "Joel told me, not because anyone feels badly that we didn't say anything to them. But he wanted me to know that they're all watching out - for **_both_** of us. That we aren't alone."

Jim bowed his head and then nodded. "They're good friends," he murmured. Looking up, he added, "It's about time I trusted that, and them." He smiled crookedly as he added, "Might as well, huh? Since they _already_ know?"

"You're okay with this?" Sandburg asked, his gaze searching Jim's and relaxing as he saw only peace there.

"Yeah, I am," Jim reassured him as his smile broadened. "Better than okay. Feels pretty good to know there are four men in the world that I can trust with my life…even better to know I can trust three of them with yours."

Blair grinned but then, as he thought about it, the smile faded. "Wait a minute. You don't trust me with my life?"

Jim shrugged as he lifted his hands. "Think about it, Chief. I seem to need all the help I can get watching out for you," he said innocently.

Wondering if he should be insulted, Blair gave his best friend a wounded look but then, catching the glint of devilment flickering in Jim's eyes, he couldn't sustain it and started to snicker.

* * *

When Brown headed back to town first thing in the morning, Jeb went with him to bring Susannah back home, while Rafe and Reynolds backtracked the Dawson gang until they found where the bank's money had been stashed. Simon, grateful for the support all of their men had given him and Joel, lifted the largest sack of the cash from the pile on the porch and handed it back to Rafe. "Divide this up amongst all the men, with our thanks," he said quietly, lifting a hand when Rafe and Reynolds both tried to protest. "Later this week, I'll see to sending help to the families of the men who were killed." And then he turned to head back upstairs to Joel, while Jim asked the two cowboys if they'd mind taking the rest of the money into town. Sam Sloane would be glad to have it back and accounted for.

Later, Jim spent some time with Simon, and with Joel, when the wounded man was a little stronger, to let them both know how much he appreciated the friendship they had shown him and Blair. The next morning, he headed back to town to give the same message to Henri, and let Brown get back to his work at the livery stable. Blair, however, decided to stay at the ranch for an extra couple of days. While all of his patients were healing well, he remained a little concerned about Joel. The older man had been the most seriously wounded but he was alert, and even eating a little, whenever he roused from long, healing sleeps. Thankfully, there seemed to be no nerve damage from his injury or the subsequent surgery. But Sandburg wanted to be absolutely certain the wound was healing cleanly before leaving.

As he spoke with both Simon and Joel that day, and the next, he realized they both felt uncomfortable with the whole town knowing that Simon had killed their overseer, and that they'd been runaway slaves. It was one thing for Jim to have ruled it self-defence, another for their neighbours to really believe it. Though Blair did his best to reassure them, repeatedly stressing their long and respected history as leading members of the Bitterwood Creek community, he could tell they remained unconvinced.

So much so, he wondered when, or even if, he'd ever see them ride into town again.

Finally, he gave up his efforts to convince them, accepting that it would take time for them to face people who now knew something deeply personal about them, and who might well be judging them harshly. Given that, physically, Joel and all the rest of his patients were clearly well on the way to recovery, he was packed and ready to go shortly after breakfast two days after Jim had left, just as he'd predicted.

Unbeknownst to Blair, who would have sternly forbidden such strenuous activity so soon after major surgery, Joel insisted upon getting up and being helped downstairs by Simon, to see the young man off. They were already on the verandah, Taggart having gratefully sagged into one of the rockers by the wide entrance, when Blair walked out with his pack over his shoulder and medical bag in his hand. When he saw Joel, who was gazing up at him with an expression of rueful delight to be there to surprise him, Blair shook his head.

"What am I going to do with you?" he chided, but gently. There was nothing in the whole world that could ever make him harsh with Joel. "You know you shouldn't be up! And you," he scolded turning to Simon, "I would have expected you to hogtie him to his bed, not aid and abet his escape!"

Simon held up his hands in defence as he replied woefully, "Don't be yellin' at me, Doc. You haven't seen Joel when he gets mean. Trust me - it ain't a pretty sight."

Blair looked from one to the other, his deep affection for both of them glowing in his eyes. They were hopeless - as bad as him and Jim. Suddenly laughing helplessly, he bent to hug Joel gently and then stood to embrace Simon. Both older men were evidently surprised, and very touched, by his spontaneous gesture.

"You both know I love you, right?" Blair said warmly, shaking his head. "But I do wish you'd take better care of yourselves."

Simon couldn't speak past the lump in his throat, but Joel, always easier with the soft emotions, replied with equal sincerity, "And we both love you, son. Blair - I know I've thanked you, but I have to say it again. You saved my life and I'll be eternally grateful."

"As will I," Simon rumbled, sniffing as he brushed at his nose.

Sandburg bowed his head as he struggled with his own emotions. "You know," he finally said slowly, and then paused to take a deep breath to steady his voice before lifting his head to look at each of them, "I never knew who my father was. But I can only hope he was as fine a man as the two of you are. You've both given nothing but friendship and support to Jim and me since the day we met, and I hope you know how much that means to us."

They nodded, their eyes damp with emotion at his tribute, even Joel too overcome to respond. They never spoke of it, there wasn't any point, but both older men had profoundly missed not having families of their own. For the first time, they now felt as if they did - and neither could ever have hoped for a son they admired and respected, and just plain loved, more than they did Blair.

Clearing his throat, blinking as he, too, sniffed, Sandburg beamed at both of them. "Well, I guess I should be on my way. I'll come back in a few days just to be sure everyone is healing fine. If I find out you've been up more than half an hour, twice a day, between now and then, Mr. Taggart, you and I are going to have a serious talk. Are we clear about that?"

"Yes, Doc, we're clear," Joel chuckled.

"I'll make sure he's good," Simon added with a grin as he laid a fond hand on his partner's shoulder.

Blair nodded and turned to head down the steps to Butternut, who was already saddled and waiting for him. But he paused, as his eyes lifted toward town and he saw a great cavalcade of people, some on horses, others in carriages or wagons, coming toward the ranch. "What's that all about?" he wondered aloud.

Simon turned to follow his glance, as did Joel, both men frowning in puzzlement, and not a little concern. "Beats the hell out of me…" Banks murmured.

But when they made out Jim, Henri and Sam out in front of what looked like the whole town, they all relaxed. Whatever it was, it couldn't be bad news.

Just a few minutes later, the lead riders were turning into the gate. Jim waved and grinned at them, but waited until several of the wagons behind him had turned in as well, before riding forward with Sloane and Brown.

"Simon, Joel," the Sheriff called out, as he dismounted and climbed up the steps to point back at all the others, "there was a rumour in town that you needed a new barn. So, figurin' there's no time like the present, folks decided to come on out and build you one."

"What?" Simon gasped, literally staggered as he looked from Jim to the wagonloads of lumber that men had spent the last three days felling and shaping. Seasoned wood would have been better, but the need was now, so they'd done their best with the resources they had available to them.

"I…I don't know what to say," Joel murmured, overcome.

"Just about the whole town is here, and the homesteaders, too," Jim added quietly. He had also picked up on Simon's worries about how the townspeople would react to knowing about their past, before he'd ridden out two days before. "They heard about what happened when Jeb went in to bring Susannah home the morning after we dealt with the Dawson gang. By the time I got back, they were already working to pull all this together. The women have been cooking and baking to have enough food for everyone today, and all the supplies we need are in the wagons. All the two of you have to do, is sit back and supervise."

Blair murmured, "Guess I'm not the only one who loves you guys…"

By then, most everyone had pulled into the wide yard and folks were waving shyly, not quite sure of their welcome. The ranch hands, including the wounded men, having been alerted by Jeb, Rafe and Reynolds of what the townsfolk planned, appeared from the bunkhouse, the corral and from the kitchen garden behind the house that some had been digging up for spring planting, grinning like urchins at their employers. Susannah appeared in the doorway, having come through the house from the kitchen in back. Her eyes misted over when she saw how very moved Simon and Joel both were by the surprise. Shaking her head, she wondered how they could ever have imagined that people wouldn't take their word over that of those no-good outlaws, or do all they could to help pick up the pieces after the murderous assault on the ranch.

Simon wiped his cheeks as he stepped to the edge of the verandah to look out over the gathered assembly. Pitching his voice to reach them all, he called out, "You folks are **_truly_** amazing. For you all to come as friends in need, so quickly, to lend us a hand, means more to us than we can ever adequately express. Joel and I thank you, thank each and every one of you, from the bottom of our hearts."

"Ain't nothin' more than you and Joel 've done fer all o' us o'er the years," Jake Wilkinson called back.

"And that's the God's own truth!" Angus MacDonald chimed in.

Moe Gurning, ever practical and with limited patience for a lot of talk, shouted, "We got us a barn to build! Let's get cracking!"

Laughing, the crowd broke up, some men unhitching teams of oxen to haul off the debris of the old barn, while others began unloading the wagons, stacking lumber ready to hand, and sorting out the hammers, saws, nails and other assorted tools and supplies. The women set up a row of tables off on the far side of the yard, near the watertower and then, after spreading out their handmade tablecloths, began to unpack boxes of food, barrels of lemonade, and eating utensils. Older boys helped the men, feeling 'grown up', while all the younger children were shepherded, or carried, by older sisters or still nursing mothers, to the side of the house where the kids could play safely. There was a good deal of friendly banter as the work got underway.

Simon stepped back to stand beside Joel, one hand again on the older man's shoulder as they gazed out in wonder at all the people who'd come to clearly give them the message that they were still very much valued and respected members of their community. "This is your work, Joel," he said quietly. "All those years of helpin' everyone out. You built these friendships."

But Joel shook his head, brushing again at tears that wouldn't seem to stop growing in his eyes. A little embarrassed by his uncontrolled emotions, he figured it must just be the weakness from his wound, and let the small worry go. "This is for both of us, Simon," he replied fondly. "You were there, helpin' out, too. And for the last couple of years, you've helped keep these folks secure. Actin' as sheriff when Jeb got hurt. Gettin' Jim to take on the job, backin' him up when he's needed it, or been hurt." Joel paused as he looked out at the people who'd come to show where they stood with respect to the ranchers. Chewing his lip, he said thoughtfully, "We misjudged them, you and me. We been hidin' our secrets for so long, so afraid of what these folks would think - we forgot, I guess, that other people, mostly, try to judge the way we do - by what we know firsthand, our experiences, and not by what happened more'n twenty years ago. Make no mistake about it, Simon, this is for **_both_** of us."

Blair overheard them, and thought how very glad he was that Simon had helped Joel downstairs that morning. He wouldn't have wanted either of them to miss this moment - not when it so very clearly meant so much to them to finally know, without any more doubt, that they truly belonged here, amongst people who cared about them and held them in high esteem.

"Well, Jim, I guess we'd better pitch in," he grinned as he slapped his best friend on the shoulder.

"Don't you overexert yourself, Chief," Jim ordered sternly as he followed his best friend down the steps.

"Yes, mama," Blair snickered, reflexively ducking, but not quite fast enough to miss the playful tip of his hat forward onto his nose. Jim laughed at Sandburg's feigned look of umbrage as his friend settled his Stetson properly back where it belonged, and then slung an arm around Blair's shoulders as they headed over to help with the cleanup of the building site.

Up on the verandah, Joel and Simon chuckled at their antics, and then Simon dropped down into the rocker beside Joel's. He wanted to give Joel some time to just enjoy the spectacle of friendship playing out before them, before helping him back up to his bed - and Blair had said he could stay up for half an hour at a time.

"Seems we got us a family," Joel mused happily, finally feeling truly accepted after almost twenty years of living in this community of people.

"A right **_big_** one," Simon agreed with a wide smile, feeling exactly the same warmth in his heart.

* * *

True to his word, Sandburg rode out the following Sunday with Jim, to check on the progress of his patients. The fact that it was also Easter Sunday was a happy coincidence, so far as Blair was concerned, though Jim wondered if they shouldn't have remained in town. It would be hard to vandalize a place in secret, if the Sheriff was sitting outside the door for the whole day and evening. Though they both hoped the pastor's sermon the previous Christmas would have some lasting impact, Ellison knew his best friend was prepared for another ugly reminder that some folks, at least, still resented his presence in Bitterwood Creek.

When they arrived, they went to the bunkhouse first to check on Taffy, who was the only one still laid up, because of his broken leg. The other wounded saw them arrive and, gradually, they all wandered in for the Doc to check on their dressings. Sandburg was gratified to see all the men were healing well, though he again cautioned Tex to stick with light chores until his broken arm healed.

And then they went to the main house. Simon, also having noted their arrival some time before, had gone up to help Joel dress, so both men were in the comfortable front room when Jim and Blair walked in with easy familiarity. Family, they'd been told strictly a few days before, didn't ever have to knock first.

Normally, they'd relax with a beer, or maybe a whiskey, before dinner, but that evening Simon and Joel surprised them with an unusual, very good, red wine.

"We stocked a few bottles a couple of years ago," Simon explained as he poured the wine from a cut-glass decanter, "for special occasions."

Blair took his pewter goblet and handed one to Joel; and then he turned to face their two hosts. Having no doubt of what the 'special occasion' was, Sandburg lifted his goblet in a toast as he wished his friends, "Happy Easter."

Jim might have wished their friends had ignored the holiday this year, as they had last spring when they'd visited, but he nodded and lifted his own drink to Simon and Joel before taking an appreciative sniff and sip. It was full-bodied, with a fruity underlay and smoky oak tones. Delicious. The two older men drank, but then exchanged glances before Simon said quietly, "Thank you for the good wishes, Blair but, actually, the special occasion we had in mind was Passover. We heard somewhere along the line that wine was part of that celebration."

Surprised, Sandburg gaped at them for a moment and then smiled. "Thank you," he replied gently. "You're right, wine is part of the tradition. It's good of you to think of it."

Banks shrugged as he sat down in one of the room's comfortably upholstered chairs. "Well, Joel told me about the conversation the two of you had the night the posse rode out and, well…"

"…we remembered that our people are not the only ones who have suffered slavery," Joel continued. "And since Passover, as we understand it, celebrates the exodus of the Jewish people from slavery in Egypt, we just thought that it was a tradition we could very comfortably celebrate with you."

Ellison smiled softly, pleased by the delicate acknowledgement and sharing of one of the traditions of his best friend's heritage. It was good for all of them, himself included, to celebrate a tradition that celebrated how a whole people regained their freedom. Joining the conversation, he said a trifle diffidently, "I'm not really one for a lot of Bible reading, but as I recall, Passover celebrates how Moses convinced Pharaoh, with God's help and, what, six or seven plagues, to allow the Jewish slaves to leave Egypt, right?"

"That's right, Jim," Blair nodded. "But it was ten plagues, in total, that took place as Moses demanded that Pharaoh, in his words, 'let my people go…in order that we may serve the Almighty'. Seven days after they left, the Egyptian Army nearly caught up with them, Pharaoh having changed his mind about letting them go, despite the death of even his first-born son, and that's when the Red Sea split, allowing Moses and those who followed him to pass safely, but then drowned the pursuing army. Passover refers specifically to the scourge that took those children's lives, literally 'passing over' the Jewish households. Fifty days after they crossed the bed of the Red Sea into the Sinai, Moses was given the Torah by God…essentially, the Ten Commandments and the history and laws of the Jewish people. Parts of the Bible mirror the Torah."

"What else does the celebration include, Sandburg?" Jim asked, interested.

"Well, there's a recounting of the story of the Exodus, the eating of unleavened bread represents the hurry of the slaves to leave Egypt, so they didn't have time to wait for the bread to rise that morning, and consuming bitter herbs to remind us of the bitterness of life in slavery. The four cups of wine represent the four stages of redemption, and the eating of a festive meal celebrates freedom," Blair explained. "Passover is an eight day holiday… altogether, it's to remind Jewish people of the experience of 'going from slavery unto freedom."

When they went into dinner a short while after, Blair was unaccountably moved to see unleavened bread in the basket on the table, as well as small portions of bitter herbs at each place. When Susannah came in from the kitchen with steaming bowls and platters, the young man looked from the table to the kind woman who had helped prepare these special tokens of respect, as well as what was very obviously a feast, and murmured, "Thank you."

She smiled softly at him, as she said quietly, "It was my privilege to help honour this tradition for you, Blair. I hope you all enjoy the meal." Seeing how touched he was by the simple gestures, she gave him a quick hug, and then turned briskly away, saying that Jeb and the kids were waiting for her in the small cottage Joel and Simon had provided for them by the bunkhouse.

Over dinner, Blair followed up on something he'd wanted to hear more about since Joel had told him how he and Simon had figured out that Jim was a Watchman, and that he was Jim's 'companion'. As they passed around the bowls of mashed potatoes, squash and beans stored over the winter, and platters of turkey and beef, Sandburg asked the older men if they'd share the old stories with him and Jim.

Glad to share some of their heritage with two men who had become as close as family, Joel and Simon took turns recounting the ancient tales of brave and noble Watchmen who used their magical senses to find game and lead the hunts to feed their tribes; and who stood watch in the forests or out on the plains, outside of their villages or towns, living an isolated life but for the company of their Companions, to ensure security against surprise attacks by enemies. The enhanced senses were considered a gift of the gods to those chosen as the best amongst their people, and as those best loved by the gods themselves, to help the deities protect and safeguard the people. Blair shared with them how the traditions of his people told that Watchmen were the sons of fallen angels, born to watch over human beings.

Jim wanted to hear more about the Companions, and the older men were glad to oblige. The old stories told that the Watchman's Companion had special gifts of their own. Grinning at Blair, they delighted in telling him that one of the strongest gifts was a talent for healing, as if just the touch of a Companion could make the sick well. But the Companions were also said to have the power to see spirits, to work magic, as well as being gifted to help the Watchmen understand and best use their skills, most especially to help hold the Watchman's spirit when it roamed to far distances to see what was there, or lifted on the wind to hear sounds no one else could hear…

It was a wonderful evening, and the two friends were in good spirits when they headed back to Bitterwood Creek. But Jim tensed, as he made out the shadowed silhouettes of men in the small light cast by an oil lantern, doing something outside their door. Cursing softly, he kicked Lobo into a gallop. Sandburg, not knowing what was wrong but able to guess, urged Butternut to race along close behind the big stallion.

When they drew nearer, Blair felt hollow as he recognized Sam and Dan…and Henri. Three men he'd _never_ have figured for vandals - and, as they got closer, he chastised himself severely for his moment of doubt. The men were painting over whatever had defaced the door with silver-gray paint that blended well with the weathered wood of the building.

"We're sorry about this Doc," Dan said quietly as he jerked a thumb toward the door. "And we decided you should know that most people in this town don't hold with the nasty acts of a few. Maybe if they see it won't be tolerated, they'll not do it again."

"Thanks, Dan," Sandburg replied soberly, and his gaze included all of them in his gratitude. "Your support means a lot to me."

Jim also expressed his appreciation of their consideration, and then he noticed a mason jar full of sweet-smelling blossoms under the office window. "Flowers?" he asked with a nod toward them.

Brown grinned as he explained, "Some of the kids thought Doc might like some flowers to, and I quote, 'remember that after the desert of winter, spring comes again and brings new life'." Shaking his head in wonder, he continued, "You got to hand it to them to come up with something that symbolizes leaving the desert of Egypt to find a new life as a free people."

Blair had dropped to one knee to carefully lift the homely, yet beautiful, gift as Brown was explaining what the flowers were meant to represent. He stilled, his head bowed, as he fought the lump in his throat and the sudden dampness of his eyes. As much as he appreciated the actions of his neighbours, and the celebration out at the ranch, this simple token of affection and understanding by the children filled his heart and touched his soul with humble joy to know they loved him as he loved them…

He felt Jim grip his shoulder with warm understanding and he nodded as he sniffed, and then he stood to carry the flowers inside and up to his room.

The next morning, as they made their first rounds of the town, the Sheriff and Deputy were surprised, and very touched, to see that _all_ of the Bitterwood Creek businesses and offices sported newly-painted silver-gray doors…

* * *

Just past the middle of May, Sandburg was as satisfied as he'd ever be that he could leave Bitterwood Creek for a couple of weeks without suffering so much guilt that it would ruin their journey. Ellison, for his part, didn't want to be away during the hot, busy summer months when the potential for trouble was at its highest. And neither of them wanted to put off their trip to the reservation until the fall. So, they talked with Simon and Henri to get their agreement to cover the town while they were away, and then sent a message to Swift Eagle, through the Indian Agent, that they were on their way and should be there in less than a week's time.

The endless, rolling prairies were at their most beautiful at that time of year. The lush, long grass was still verdant and dotted with delicately-scented wildflowers. Rippling under the light wind, infinite shades of green shifted and darkened under the shadows of light, puffy clouds floating high above across the vivid blue of the sky. The air was pleasantly warm and smelled fresh and sweet. Along the winding river, cottonwood, willows and elder, aspen and sycamore were lushly leaved, casting dappled shadows over the grassy verges and the water that flowed swiftly toward the mighty Mississippi. Cattle grazed alone or in clusters, lazy and utterly unbothered by the two men who rode past at an easy, steady pace.

They were relaxed and cheerful, well contented with one another's company, and looking forward to seeing Swift Eagle, and his companion, Whispering Waters - and to learn what they might from the two older men. The last almost two years had brought some very hard times but, through the troubles and fears they'd confronted, they had also come to know one another better than they might have, had life been more peaceful. Their friendship had been forged by fire and was as strong as any steel, as solid as the rock of the earth. Each perfectly comfortable with the other, they could enjoy the peace of companionable silence as much as the laughter that came with their frequent teasing. There was a lightness of spirit between them that was grounded in the confident surety that their trust and affection for one another was returned in full measure. They _felt_ safe in a way neither had ever been before their paths had crossed, and happy with their lives, as well as at ease with whatever the future might hold, certain that together, they could handle just about anything life could throw at them.

They rode east and north, past the outpost where Ellison had last served, a burned out shell now. Silently, Jim led the way toward Poplar Flats. The remains of the camp, and the slaughter, were long gone, the site a grassed-over meadow shaded by trees near a shallow creek. But Sandburg knew from the look in Jim's eyes that he wasn't seeing the tranquility of the place now, but was remembering how it had been the last time he'd ridden here. Finally, the lawman sighed as he flicked Lobo's reins and they moved on.

Gradually, the face of the land changed, becoming more varied, the rolling sameness of the swell of plains broken by forests and ancient granite walls of rock and shale. Sometimes the land would suddenly fall away, opening up long vistas so that they could see for miles. The air smelled more of pine, and they caught sight of deer in a shady copse by a stream. Eagles glided high on the wind, and hawks dipped after rabbits scampering like streaks of light for cover. Squirrels chattered in the trees around them, and songbirds warbled with blissful abandon.

Their last night on the trail, they camped beside a burbling stream deep enough to provide fish for their fire. Close now to their destination, Sandburg was busy speculating about what they might learn, what mysteries might be revealed. Jim found his younger friend's enthusiasm amusing, but really didn't expect that they'd learn all that much more than what they'd already discovered about his sentinel abilities. Nor did he expect that, by some trick or insight, they'd suddenly be seeing their so-called spirit guides - wasn't even at all sure he wanted to see a black jaguar prowling around on a regular basis.

As the darkness deepened around them, the moon rising in the star-bright sky while the fire burned low and the night wind rustled soft in the trees, they settled for the night. Blair curled in his blanket and quickly dropped off to sleep. Jim was just nodding off when he jerked awake, and stiffened, as he listened to the distant plaintive cry of a howling wolf. He cut a quick glance to Sandburg, to reassure himself that the kid was still there, safely sleeping on the other side of the fire. And then he lay back, shaking his head, telling himself that it was just Blair's blather about spirit guides earlier that had him so jumpy. A wolf was just a wolf, not some weird ghost keening out a warning of impending danger. Rolling onto his side, he forced himself to close his eyes and relax…

…but all he could think of was the last time he clearly remembered hearing the long, lonely howl of a wolf.

* * *

It was mid-morning when they came into view of the new fort that had been built partly to replace the old outpost burned to the ground in the Indian war, and partly to ensure that the Indians stayed on their new reservation. They were obliged to stop by to report to the Indian Agent, Cecil Cummings, that they'd arrived and would be heading out to the reserve for four or five days. They hoped to get in and out quickly, having no interest in running into Rutherford, who held command of the troops stationed there. Jim hadn't heard anything more after the two colonels had left Bitterwood Creek almost two months ago, but he was pretty sure they would, as a minimum, have asked questions of the troops who had participated in the massacre at Poplar Flats; and he knew Rutherford would be furious to have his orders and actions questioned. The fact that he still held a command was more than a little disheartening, but Jim was resolved to try to avoid further conflict with the man. He and Sandburg had better things to do.

However, Cummings, a stout, talkative man, had some interesting rumours to share. Apparently, there _had_ been investigators, two colonels, out from D.C., asking a lot of questions. The enlisted men, never reconciled to what they'd been ordered to do that distant day, had readily confirmed their orders to ride in at dawn, without warning, and 'kill every savage, _every man, woman and child_ , to ensure none of them would ever kill another innocent white soul again'. Word had it that Rutherford had blustered his way through, claiming his men were misrepresenting the purpose of their inspection at Poplar Flats, imposing their own, very understandable, loathing for the hostiles on their interpretation of his orders to remain alert. The men said no one in the village fired at them first. Rutherford said that was nonsense, but it had all happened so quickly, the men still alive most probably didn't remember the exact details of what had occurred. And, as Rutherford sadly pointed out, unfortunately, the subordinates who knew very well what had happened had been killed in subsequent skirmishes. Nothing appeared to have been decided by the time the two colonels had left for Washington two weeks ago, and morale in the fort was abysmal. The men despised Rutherford and he appeared to detest them with equal venom.

But, Cummings said, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial manner as he leaned toward them, "I've heard, from my own people in D.C., that the Major is likely to be called back to Washington to face a court martial. If he hasn't already received his travel orders, they should be coming in the next pouch when the courier brings in the mail and news from the Capitol." Leaning back, he shook his head as he continued soberly, "Personally, I can't wait to see the back of him. My Indians won't really relax until he's long gone and never coming back."

Jim and Blair had listened, keeping their own counsel, but Sandburg saw the wisp of a smile twitch on Ellison's lips when Cummings mentioned the rumour about the court martial. Maybe some measure of justice would prevail, after all.

Finally, Cummings told them that Chief Roaring Bear and his people had been allocated a parcel of land fifteen miles by fifteen miles or 225 square miles, which he emphasized was over 140,000 acres - a nice piece of land, big enough to let them wander in the forests, hunt, fish in the river and enjoy themselves. Jim shook his head, his lips thinned against the words that Blair couldn't quite restrain. "Not much in return for the whole of Kansas and part of Missouri that used to be their hunting grounds."

Cummings shrugged. "Better than nothing," he replied. "Better than being dead."

When they rode out past the gates of the fort a short time later, Jim felt the hairs prickling on the back of his neck and turned, wondering what had alerted him to a possible threat. At first, he didn't see anything untoward, but then his eyes lifted to the parapets, and he saw Rutherford staring down at them, his face twisted in a grimace of hate. Jim touched his fingers to the brow of his Stetson in a mocking salute, and then turned his back, urging Lobo into a canter to catch up with Sandburg, who had pulled ahead.

* * *

The village on the new reservation was about an hour's ride from the Fort, on the near edge of the land allocated to the tribe. Much of the reserve land was rocky, with cliffs that loomed over the forests and the river that wound through. They knew, from the newspaper accounts of the treaty settlement, that the Indians were to be supplied with ploughs and seed, so that they could become 'self-sufficient' - but this land was not suitable for farming and both men wondered as they rode toward the village what would happen when the government stopped supplying grain to the community. The amount of land they'd been given wouldn't support them all indefinitely through hunting and fishing alone.

They pulled up for a moment when they came within sight of their destination, to get their bearings. The village itself was on flat ground just above the edge of the river, and backed by the dark forest - a town of more than a hundred very large buckskin cone-shaped tents and open fires. As they rode closer, they could see people sitting listlessly in front of their tents or around the fires, shoulders slumped as if they were all infinitely weary. Some fished lethargically on the banks of the river, and women further downstream were pounding clothing on the rocks. Children squatted in the dust, or wandered along the rocky shoreline, as if they didn't know what to do with themselves. The whole place held an air of defeat and exhaustion, and everyone looked thin, as if they'd gone without decent food for a long time. It took both of them a minute to realize what else seemed off-kilter, and then they realized most of the men were wearing cotton checked shirts of the same dull blue and yellow, and ill-fitting jeans; and the women were garbed in awkward skirts and blouses not designed for the freedom of movement they'd been accustomed to.

"Some bureaucrat or missionary probably decided they had to be 'decently' dressed," Jim grunted in disgust.

Blair just frowned and nodded. These people weren't being left alone to be who and what they chose, but were being forced to change, to become more like the whites who had defeated them. And he wondered what other changes would be forced upon them, to 'civilize' them. Schools, probably, where they'd be obliged to learn and speak in English. Told their beliefs were wrong, if not downright evil. His head bowed in sadness. They'd lost much more than their land and freedom. They were losing who they were.

Clicking to their mounts, they rode forward, each thinking how different this place was from the war camp they'd been in more than a year before. Those men had been proud, and strong - they'd known who they were. Cold, certainly; hungry, probably; but those had been physical discomforts, not a slow poisoning of souls.

As they approached, their presence was finally noticed, and heads lifted. A child went scurrying, calling as he ran. About fifteen men stood and walked to the edge of the village, where they stood silently, waiting for the two white men to approach. As they got closer, Jim recognized them as warriors who had been in the war camp and behind them, with some relief, he saw Swift Eagle and Whispering Waters approaching. When they reached the silent cluster of waiting men, Blair and Jim drew their horses to a stop and dismounted, just as the two older men they'd come to visit approached through the gathered men.

"Brave Star and One Who Heals," Swift Eagle called out with warm solemnity, "We welcome you in peace. It is good to see you again." As he lifted his hand in formal salute and bowed his head, all the other men also bowed their heads in respectful greeting, remembering the one who had helped them, and the other who had ridden in alone to take him home.

"Brave Star?" Jim echoed with a slight frown of confusion.

A slight smile played around Swift Eagle's lips as he lifted his head and waved them forward, to accompany him through the village. "Do you not wear a star on your chest? And was it not brave to ride alone into an enemy's camp to find your brother?"

"Name sounds right to me, Jim," Blair grinned and then turned to their hosts. "It's good to see both of you again. We're sorry we couldn't come sooner. But…" he hesitated as he looked around and then at their clothing, his face clouding with concern, "are you all right?"

Swift Eagle looked around at the camp pitched too close to a river that would flood in the early spring, too unsheltered from the wind that would blow along its channel in the bitter winter. Returning his gaze to Sandburg, he replied evenly, "The Agent has no experience and he does not understand that this is not a good place. But tents are easy to move and we'll find another place in the fall." Wryly, he cut a quick look down at his clothing, and shrugged. "They wish us to look more like you - as if the way we look is also who we are. It is not. Inside, we are who we always were, the children of the Great Spirit. The cloth is but a mantle, nothing more."

The older men led them to the tent they shared on the far edge of the village, closest to the Fort, as if the sentinel was still on guard, standing between his people and those who could yet threaten them. Jim didn't miss the significance of the placement and, as he looked toward the direction of the fort, he told them, "We heard that Major Rutherford is being called back to Washington, to face charges for his actions at Poplar Flats."

Surprised, the two former warriors turned to look at him, stiff for a moment, their hatred for Rutherford glittering in their dark eyes. But then they relaxed and waved their two guests to sit on blankets by the fire just outside the entrance flap. "You bring good news, and we are grateful, Brave Star," the older sentinel said, as they sat as well.

Turning to Blair, he asked, "Have you seen your spirit guide yet, young one?"

"No," Sandburg replied with a chagrined look. "I'm hoping you can teach me how…"

Swift Eagle nodded and turned to Jim, "And, you, Brave Star - have you seen…"

But Jim shook his head, as he said, "I haven't _seen_ anything."

The old sentinel studied Ellison and saw the flicker of uncertain concern in the lawman's eyes. But he said nothing, only nodded.

Whispering Waters leaned forward then, drawing their attention. "Our ways are different from yours, our visions may be different, too. We will share our knowledge, but as it is sacred to us, you must prepare."

"How do we do that?" Sandburg asked eagerly, clearly ready to begin.

"You must fast, and go into the wilderness - there, up to that place," Whispering Waters said, pointing up behind the village to the highest, rocky cliff and tree-covered promontory that loomed against the sky about a mile upstream from the village. Turning back to them, he continued, "For a night and a day and then another night, the two of you must look out over the world, and think on who you know yourselves to be - and think of what it is that you wish to learn and better understand. You must open yourselves to accept new truths and ask the ancients to be with you and guide your path. On your return, you will bathe in the river. We will eat and then answer your questions as best we can. You will go into the sweat lodge, to be purified…and then you will dance by the fire's light, under the stars…dance as brothers in time."

"Okay," Blair replied, turning to Jim. But Ellison and Swift Eagle, as well, were looking toward the hill between the village and the fort. "What? Did you see - or hear - something?"

Jim shook his head as he continued to search the distance, but then shrugged as he turned back. "It was just an impression. I thought I saw a flash of light…like a reflection of the sun on glass." He shrugged again, assuming someone from the fort was probably keeping a discreet surveillance on the village.

When they turned toward Swift Eagle, he was gazing toward Whispering Waters, both of their faces inscrutable. The shaman nodded slightly and then turned to the white men. "This is a time of testing, to clarify your thoughts and commitment to your relationship as sentinel and guide; and to test the strength of that commitment, to determine if you are ready to move forward - it is time for you to begin."

* * *

"I don't know, Sandburg," Jim groused as they set up a small camp on the one marginally level spot on the top of the promontory. "Sounds like a lot of mumbo-jumbo to me. What kind of test is it to sit out here for a night and a day and another night, looking out at the view? And not eating?"

Blair chuckled as he pulled his sleeping roll off Butternut's back. "Just go with it, Jim. Think of it as an adventure, man. Here we are in the great outdoors, the world at our feet. All we have to do is talk…"

His voice cut off abruptly, as he turned and realized just how close to the edge their camp was…and how far up they were from the river below.

Jim turned at the sudden silence, and frowned at Sandburg's sudden pallor. "What's wrong?" he demanded.

"I, uh, guess, when we were riding up the trail through the forest on the back of this rock, that I didn't realize how high it really is," Blair gulped, still standing beside Butternut, his knuckles white as he clutched the sleeping roll to his chest.

"Yeah…so?" Jim prodded, not understanding the problem.

"So, uh, I don't like heights all that much," Blair admitted, flushing in embarrassment. "Terrified of them, actually."

"Oh," Ellison replied as he looked around at the flat space of rock that curved out and over the river. "It's perfectly safe and we've got lots of room. It's fine, really."

Blair nodded slowly as he looked up and around to keep from looking down. There was another matching cliff across the river, and other rocky outcrops to either side, almost as high. And it was true, they could see for miles and miles from up here. It was…nice, sort of. He jumped when Jim touched his shoulder, having been unaware of his partner's approach.

"Come on, I promise - I won't let you fall," Jim said with a grin, though his eyes were kind as took Blair's arm and led him to the fire Jim had already begun to build. "Think of it as an adventure."

"Right," Blair muttered as he allowed himself to be pulled along - reluctantly. "Have I ever told you that I really hate it when you throw my words back at me?"

* * *

Once Blair was sitting down, he felt more secure and managed to relax a little. Immediately, he began to focus on the reason they were up there in the first place. As they reviewed the tasks Whispering Waters had posed for them, they both figured they had a pretty good grip on who they knew themselves to be from a variety of perspectives. They'd shared much in the past months, withholding no secrets of their histories from one another. And they knew they were each other's best friend. Jim had long ago accepted that his senses made him what Sandburg called a sentinel, and it fit for him. He was a 'watchman' of sorts for his 'tribe'. Though he still felt uncomfortable about having very different perception skills than others did, and wondered how he'd gotten so 'lucky' as to be some sort of freak of nature, he was resigned that it was who he was and there wasn't anything he could do about it, anyway; so he lived with it as best he could. Blair, however, was less convinced that the companion or guide was anyone special, as opposed to just someone who knew what to watch out for and how to help the sentinel. In his view, anyone could learn how to do that.

"Can they, Chief?" Jim challenged. "Simon, Joel and H can bring me out of a zone, with a lot of effort and sometimes a little pain." He stopped and fingered his jaw, thinking about the last time Brown had caught him lost in some fog and had finally slugged him to bring him out of it. "You never seem to have that kind of trouble, you know? Maybe you have some special gift that, I don't know, resonates with mine. Maybe that's a question we should ask them when we get back."

And that led them into a discussion of the questions they had - or at least Blair had.

"What do you mean you don't have any questions?" he exclaimed when Jim had shrugged when Sandburg asked him what he wanted to know, and then had admitted he didn't really have any questions at all.

"Chief," he began, and then stopped as he looked out over the vista that was now deepening toward night, gathering his thoughts. Turning back to Blair, he went on, "to tell you the truth, I came because **_you_** wanted to come so much. Personally, I think we're doing just fine as it is."

"But, the spirit guides…don't you want to be able to see them?" Sandburg pressed.

Jim gave his best friend a quizzical look, as he drawled, "I know these people believe they see things that aren't there - but you're a doctor, for crying out loud! You know what happens to people in our world who see invisible animals! They get called 'crazy', and other people lock them up for their own safety! So, no, I don't really think I want to see a bunch of invisible animals, thanks anyway."

Blair crossed his arms and canted his head a little as he shook it, his lips thinned into resignation as he gazed at Jim. "You're no fun, you know that?" he charged. "Come on, let go of that super-rational, 'if I can't see it, it doesn't exist' attitude. People used to think the world was flat, too - but that didn't mean they were right! I think Swift Eagle and Whispering Waters **_do_** see things we don't know how to see. I've read about countless different cultures around the world, and over the millennia, who could do things or knew things, we've forgotten how to do. Like how to build the pyramids, for example. Jiimmm, commme onnn! Give it a chance!"

Ellison gazed into the wide eyes that pleaded with him to let go a little, and listened to the nearly child-like whine as Blair urged him to be open to something unexplainable. And he couldn't help it. He burst out laughing.

"What?" Blair demanded, miffed.

"You, Chief," Jim snickered. "Honestly, I have never in my life known anybody quite like you. You can be the most rational of men one moment and as enthusiastic as a child, at the possibility that fairies might really exist, the next. You slay me, Sandburg."

"Well, fine, laugh at me," Blair huffed. "All I'm saying is that you could give it a chance, all right?"

"Yeah, all right, Blair," Jim grinned. "Just for you, I'll try to see invisible spirit animals. Okay?"

"Okay," Sandburg nodded, but his lips twitched and he couldn't restrain a grin as he chirped, "I hope I can see your jaguar. He sounds very… _impressive_."

"Go to sleep, Sandburg," Jim growled as he pulled off his boots and then lay down to look up at the stars. But he smiled at the sound of Blair's irrepressible giggle.

* * *

Still barefoot, Blair was standing about a foot away from the rim, tentatively looking over, with his chin in the air and his eyes peeking down at the river below, his posture somehow conveying that if he stood up tall and leaned a little backwards, he wouldn't somehow tilt over the edge.

Waking, Jim yawned and stretched lazily, and then looked up at his friend. "Checking out the neighbourhood, Sandburg?" he drawled as he lifted his arms and clasped his hands behind his head.

"Well, I guess," Blair replied, as he cut a quick look back at Jim, "I'm trying to desensitize myself a little. If we're going to spend a whole day and another night up here, I thought I might as well use the experience to, uh, learn to like heights…or, at least, not want to run screaming every time I look over the edge."

"Uh-huh," Jim grunted as he closed his eyes again, content to doze for a while longer. "Whatever you say."

Turning his attention back to the view below, Sandburg asked, to distract himself as much as really concerned to know the answer, "You sleep okay? I thought I heard you talking in your sleep a couple of times, like you were upset or something." They both had nightmares from time to time. Given some of what they'd seen and lived through, it wasn't surprising.

As soon as Sandburg asked, fragments of his nightmare popped into Jim's mind. A forest at dusk, the air blue. A wolf howling…finding the wolf dead. And then, somehow, the wolf had become Sandburg - and he was dead. His throat suddenly dry, his chest tight, Jim felt his gut twist as nausea spiked at the hideous memory, and he tried, desperately, to push it away. Blair wasn't dead. He was gloriously alive - it had only been a terrible dream.

"Jim?" Sandburg called when there was no answer.

"It was a pretty strange dream, Chief," Jim frowned, and then allowed himself to be distracted from his churning emotions by the sharp snap of a twig from the forest behind and slightly above them. Probably their horses just moving around, like they had been doing since before dawn, searching for whatever grass they could find…they didn't have to starve for practically two whole days and nights. Lucky horses.

"Oh," Sandburg murmured, grimacing as he decided he'd done enough 'desensitizing' for the moment, and Jim's dream sounded like it might be interesting. "What was it abou…" he was asking as he turned and then froze, his hands lifting into the air. "Ah, Jim? We've got company."

Jim opened his eyes at Blair's odd, strangled, tone, and then began to scramble to his feet as he twisted around, automatically reaching for the guns lying a foot or so away. But a harsh voice rang out, stopping him.

"Touch your weapons, and I'll kill him right now."

Lifting his head, Jim growled, "Rutherford."

The Major was standing about thirty feet away, just inside the tree line, his rifle pointed at them.

"I **_knew_** the two of you couldn't be trusted - that you're **_traitors_**!" Rutherford spat out. "Nobody would believe me. And now, because of you, they're going to charge me with criminally violating my authority! I'll be taken into custody any day now…"

"Yeah, we heard that," Jim replied, his voice tight. He shifted, wanting to stand, but Rutherford jerked the rifle's action, sliding a bullet into the chamber, so he paused. Watching. Waiting for an opening, any opportunity to act. "What do you want?"

 ** _"I want justice!"_** Rutherford yelled. "I did my job! Those Indians were savages! They deserved to die. So do **_you_** for consorting with them, and for aiding and abetting the enemy, for treason. _I_ am your judge, and your jury. And **_I_** find you **_guilty_** as charged. **_I_** am your executioner."

"You can't get away with this," Blair argued, his voice deliberately pitched low, his tone calm as he tried to reason with the frenzied military officer. "If you do this, you'll hang for murder."

Rutherford just smiled coldly, hatred burning in his eyes.

Jim was watching closely, and he could see the Major's finger start to tighten on the trigger. **_"GET DOWN!"_** he bellowed to warn Sandburg as he rolled for his guns, hoping to draw Rutherford's fire. The rifle exploded as Jim came up, leveling his Colt and firing it rapidly three times in succession - Rutherford's body jerked back into a macabre dance, and then collapsed, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Jim whirled to check on Blair - and found, with a sickening jolt of shock, that he was alone on the cliff-top. Scrambling to the edge, he screamed, **_"SANDBURG!"_** as his eyes raked the river with desperate fear. Finally, he spotted Blair, already being carried downstream by the fast-moving current, floating facedown. **_"No, dear God, NO!"_**

Jim turned and ran back a few paces, and then raced to the edge, leaping off in a wide, curved dive that would take him as close to Sandburg as he could get. When he hit the icy water, the breath was knocked out of his lungs and he had to struggle to get back to the surface to drag in air. But even in those moments, he was going with the current, swimming with long, fast strokes, his face devoid of every expression but grim determination to get to his best friend.

For long harrowing minutes, Jim chased Blair through the river, but the current was fast and had already carried Sandburg a goodly distance away; and Sandburg was offering no resistance, his limp body bobbing, sinking, and resurfacing as the river bore him onward. Muscles straining, reaching far to cut deep and fast, kicking fiercely, Ellison surged through the water, desperate to catch Blair, to save him. He let loose the flame in the lantern with the bronze base in his mind, as he sought with increasing panic to hear Sandburg's heartbeat, but the rush of water filled his head, blocking out everything else. It was taking too long, and Blair had been shot - how badly? Surely to God, he wasn't dead. **_Couldn't_** be dead. Still Jim forged on, consumed with the single desire to get to Blair, but though he rigorously closed the distance between them, Blair remained too far ahead for him to reach out and grab, to turn his face to the sun, so that he could breathe. Jim was furious with how long it was taking, but he refused to give way to despair and give up. It wasn't hopeless! It wasn't, couldn't be, over yet. Blair was strong - they'd get through this, he'd be fine - if only Jim could reach him! Stroke after stroke, kicking hard, gulping great gasps of air, Jim fought the water, time and space to reach his best friend.

Finally, the current pushed Sandburg closer to shore, and his body snagged on a half-submerged tree, holding him bobbing gently in the current. Redoubling his efforts now that Blair was within reach and had slowed to wait for him, his muscles burning with effort as he stroked with mindless determination fueled by desperation, Ellison reached the shallows. Thrashing through the hip-deep water, Jim lunged out to grab Blair's shoulder to haul him over onto his back, while supporting his head out of the water.

 ** _"Blair!"_** Jim yelled, in a frenzy of fear, to the limp man floating against him. When there was no response, he turned and hauled Sandburg toward the shore, dragging him up onto the bank and then dropped to his knees beside his best friend. He smelled blood and he quickly checked Blair's body to find the wound…a deep graze on his shoulder that must have pushed him back, off-balance and over the edge…and a gash on his forehead. But the wounds weren't bleeding and Sandburg's lips and face were blue…and cold. Jim felt for a pulse at the base of Blair's throat, _"Come on, come on,"_ he gasped - but there was none to find; the ever-present sound of Sandburg's heart was silent.

 ** _"NO!"_** Ellison screamed as he gripped his friend's shoulders and shook him. **_"Don't you die on me!"_** he raged. Panting for breath, he fought the panic that nearly blinded him, forcing himself to think. There had to be something he could do! Roughly, he turned Blair and pounded his back, trying to knock the water out of his lungs, and then Jim pulled him back over, to cup his cold cheeks. _"What do I do, Chief? Dear God, help me! What do I do?"_

Not having any real idea of what he was doing, only knowing Blair needed to breathe, he shifted to bend over Sandburg, covering his friend's cold, flaccid lips and breathing in his own air. Again and again…and again. _"Breathe, Chief…please…breathe…"_ he panted and then tried again. Frustrated, he pounded on Blair's chest, to force his best friend's heart to push blood through his body, to his lungs. And then he breathed again, over and over into his partner's mouth.

Nothing.

No response.

"He is dead," Swift Eagle said from somewhere close.

Jim's head whipped up and he glared at the two Indians who had appeared out the forest. **_"He's_ NOT _dead!"_** he cried, with furious denial. "You hear me? **_Blair's not dead!"_**

Whispering Waters stepped forward, his eyes filled with compassion. "Your Guide is dead, Sentinel."

Jim turned his face away, not wanting to hear the hateful words, to stare down at Blair's body, and the sob of defiance at the unthinkable, the utterly unacceptable, reality built in his chest. **_"NOOOO!"_** he screamed, throwing his head back, his fists clenched in futile anguish.

"He may yet be saved…" Whispering Waters said quietly. "But only **_you_ ** have the power to bring him back."

 _"What?"_ Jim gasped, turning desperate eyes upon the shaman. **_"How? Tell me how!"_**

"Do you choose to be a Sentinel?" the shaman asked. "You must choose, you must want to be what you are…"

"How can that…"

"Do you choose?" the shaman demanded sternly.

" ** _YES,_** fine, just **_help_** him!" Ellison snapped, rigid with urgent need to do something, anything, to end this nightmare.

"Then, use your spirit guide, Sentinel - send him to find your Guide and bring him back to you, before he disappears into the Forests of Time…"

"What…" Jim gaped. Spirit guide? Forests of Time?

"Trust your spirit guide to find his," Whispering Waters commanded.

It made no sense.

Shaking his head, Ellison took a deep breath and then looked down at Blair's face. Tears glistened in the lawman's eyes, and he felt as if something were crushing his chest. Leaning forward, he tenderly brushed wet curls from Blair's cold brow, his fingers drifting over the face of the human being he loved best in the world, tracing Sandburg's cheek, his jaw and lingering over the still place on his throat where there should be a pulse. The shaman's words made no sense - but Jim was beyond caring about what was sensible. He'd do anything - **_try anything_** \- if only he could get Blair back. Blinking, Jim cupped his hands around Blair's face, feeling the chill of his best friend's skin pierce him to his soul.

 _"Please,"_ he whispered. _"Bring him back to me…"_

Then he closed his eyes and tried to picture a black jaguar…and felt as if he was spinning dizzily into the blue forest. He saw the jaguar look at him with brilliant, emerald eyes and then turn its head. Jim followed its gaze, and saw a wolf limping slowly away in the distance toward a warm, glowing light; he could hear the wounded animal whimpering in anguished distress, see it hesitating…

 **"COME BACK!"** he screamed into the forest. **_"DAMMIT! Don't you go!"_**

And then the black jaguar was racing through the thickly wooded forest toward the wolf, leaping over obstacles in its path. The wolf stumbled to a halt at Jim's call, and looked back over its shoulder - and then it spun around and was racing toward the cat, flat out as fast as he could go.

The two animals leapt toward one another, merging into one another in a blinding, cataclysmic burst of light and heat! And then Jim could hear the essential sound that grounded him as Blair's heart began to beat…the forest blurred until he was once again looking down into the face cupped in his hands. But Sandburg wasn't breathing, was still lying so shockingly and apparently lifeless…

 ** _"Breathe!"_** Jim commanded with sharp urgency and desperate demand and then, once again, he bent over Sandburg to blow air into his lungs. He could hear the heartbeat, weak and fluttering, but there. Again, he emptied his lungs into Blair's body, blowing all that he was, sharing all he could give, all that he had to the depths of his own soul, and then again, and once more.

Suddenly, Blair's body jerked as he gagged, and Jim swiftly turned him on his side, pounding on his back as he held him steady, while Sandburg choked up the water that gushed from his lips. Sagging back against Jim's arm, Blair wheezed and gasped, dragging in breath after breath, his eyes locked on Jim's as he struggled back to life.

"That's it, Blair," Jim soothed, weak with devastating relief as he stroked Sandburg's brow. "Just breathe. Everything's okay, if you just breathe."

Sandburg's hand fumbled up to grab onto Jim's shirt, holding on tight, as he continued to pant sharply. Jim held him steady, supporting his shoulders and head, soothing him quietly, reassuring him that he was going to be fine. Gradually, Blair was able to let go of the panic that had consumed him when he was blown off the cliff to drop through the air to crash through the rock-hard, freezing water, desperately fighting for breath - and only filling his lungs with water - thrashing to find the surface…until there was only a blue forest, dim and primeval with a blinding light beckoning in the distance. As the panic of being lost - of knowing he'd left Jim somewhere behind - receded, his breathing settled until he was drawing slower, deeper breaths.

"You're okay," Jim kept murmuring, his voice quaking with emotion. "I've got you. You're safe."

 _"Jim,"_ Blair rasped hoarsely as he reached to pull himself closer, as if he could crawl into his sentinel, merge as the wolf had with the jaguar.

Ellison drew him into a tight hug, and rested his chin against Blair's wet curls, oblivious to the tears streaming down his cheeks. "I've got you, Blair. I've got you."

The shudders rippling through Sandburg's body eased to light trembling until they too stilled, while Jim held him tightly. "Shh," Ellison soothed as he rubbed Sandburg's back. "Easy, kid."

Finally, Blair drew in a long slow breath and let it out as he relaxed in Jim's embrace. _"I fell,"_ he rasped. _"And I couldn't breathe. I was in this forest…and I couldn't find you."_

"I know," Jim murmured as he kissed the top of Blair's head. " ** _I_** had to find **_you_**."

"I saw - I saw a wolf going toward a light. And I didn't want him to go… ** _I_** didn't want to go," Blair stammered, his voice a little stronger. "And then I heard you, _calling_ for me. _Oh, God, Jim…I knew you'd come after me. That you weren't going to just let me go…"_

"Never let you go," Jim choked out. **_"Never…"_**

"And then I saw a jaguar racing toward the wolf, and the wolf turned and raced back toward it…and they… _merged_ in this incredible flash of light…" Sandburg continued, speaking in a rush now. "It was _them_ \- our spirit guides. Wasn't it?"

"Yeah, kid," Jim sighed, weak now with the aftermath of panic and the immensity of his relief. "It was."

"You saw it, too, didn't you?" Blair asked, his voice still hoarse and weak, as he pushed himself back to look up into Jim's face. "You sent the jaguar to find me."

Ellison nodded as he reached to stroke Sandburg's cheek. "Couldn't let you go, Chief."

_"But how?"_

Jim looked up then, at the two older men who had stood silently, watching. "Whispering Waters told me I had to trust our spirit guides, and I had to send mine for yours…"

Blair twisted around, for the first time realizing they weren't alone. He gazed at the older men for a long moment, comprehension growing his eyes. "A test…" he murmured. When they dipped their heads and then lifted their eyes back to his, he asked in a small voice, "Please tell me it's over and I don't have to go back up onto that cliff…"

"Some never pass the test," Whispering Waters said quietly. "And some, if their spirits are strong, pass it quickly. "Come…you have dwelt upon the heights, and bathed in the river. You must eat."

Jim lifted Blair, but Sandburg protested, albeit weakly, "Hey, I can walk."

Ellison cocked a skeptical brow, but he set Blair on his feet. Sandburg took one wobbly step and lurched to the side. Jim caught him and swung the younger man back up into his arms. " ** _Sure_** you can, Chief." As he followed the older men into the forest and back to the village, he continued with giddy relief, the shock of all that had happened only beginning to make itself felt, "But why should you have to? You've had a busy morning. Desensitizing yourself to heights. Facing down a madman. Getting shot off the cliff. Drowning. Being dead for a while. Very busy morning. Why don't you just take it easy and let me get us there, okay?"

Blair didn't know whether to snicker with more than a little hysteria or gape in disbelief as Jim matter-of-factly listed off the morning's activities. _Dead?_ He'd thought it some kind of weird vision, maybe a near-death experience but…he'd really been _dead?_ When Jim looked down at him, with the sweetest smile that Blair had ever seen on his best friend's face, a lump lodged in his throat and he had to blink against his suddenly stinging eyes. _"Okay, Jim,"_ he murmured. _"Thanks…for taking this trip with me…and for bringing me home."_

Jim just nodded, understanding perfectly. Home was wherever the two of them were, so long as they were together.

* * *

Swift Eagle told Jim, as they walked the short distance back to the village, that he had sent Deer Stalker to bring back their horses and gear from the promontory. The people had heard the shots from the distant promontory - had seen one fall, and then another dive into the river. Now, uncertain, they stared at the men as they left the forest. Silently, the villagers walked toward them and then stopped, smiling only when they saw the man in Brave Star's arms still lived. Word spread ahead of their passage through the village, a ripple of awed sounds, and then the once again silent, respectful people parted to clear a path for them, bowing their heads as the men passed.

When the four men reached the tent on the far edge of the village, Whispering Waters led them inside. He held forth two breechclouts and warm animal skin robes for them to wrap around themselves once they'd stripped off their sodden clothing. While, outside, Swift Eagle finished preparing their meal of rabbit stew and bannock, the shaman examined the wound on Sandburg's shoulder and the gash on his forehead. He soothed the syrup he squeezed from an aloe plant into both wounds, and bound the shoulder with soft deerskin, leaving the shallow cut on Sandburg's forehead open to the air.

Blair wanted to ask questions immediately, but the shaman shook his head as he smiled, "After you have eaten, Touch That Heals. There will be time, then, for all of your questions."

By the time the meal was finished, Deer Stalker had returned, leading Lobo and Butternut. What he had done with Rutherford's body, nobody asked and nobody cared.

* * *

As they set their bowls aside, Swift Eagle added a few sticks to the fire as Whispering Waters handed a clay cup to Sandburg, filled with a potion he prepared to help clear the younger man's lungs and soothe his throat. Once Blair had drunk it all, the shaman and Swift Eagle settled themselves and then bowed their heads to their guests.

"You have questions?" Whispering Waters asked, his tone low and formal.

Jim blew out a breath, still too shaken by the morning's events to think clearly, and looked to Blair who blinked and nodded. "Lots of them," he sighed. Looking up at Jim, and then to the others, his voice uncertain, he asked, "Was I really dead?"

Crossing his arms tightly across his chest, Jim nodded tightly as he bowed his head. The emotions that had ripped through him during those terrible moments - from finding himself alone on the cliff, to realizing he'd been too late - were still raw, the anguish he'd felt something he'd never forget.

"So - Jim has the power to bring the dead back to life?" Sandburg murmured in awe, his voice soft and amazed.

"No, young one," Whispering Waters corrected. "Only you, his Guide, can the Sentinel call back from the Forests of Time, and only then, if his love for you is greater than all else in his life."

What power those words had.

Tears suddenly filled Blair's eyes, glittering in the bright sunlight, and he bowed his head, his hair hiding his face, as he trembled with understanding of what Jim had done for him - of what his life was worth to his friend.

Concerned, Ellison shifted over to loop a strong arm around his shoulders. "Hey, kid - take it easy," Jim soothed. "It's okay…a good thing…"

Sniffing, Blair blinked and nodded, knuckling the wetness from his cheeks as he looked up. "Yeah," he agreed, "it's a _very_ good thing. But, it's a hugely hurtful thing, too, if something happens and you can't get to me in time. Jim - I never want you to feel pain because of me…"

Ellison shrugged a little as he shook his head and looked away, not having the words to say all that was in his heart. But he swallowed and then in a low voice breaking with emotion, he said, "You'll never be so far away that I can't follow you…find you. You just have to wait for me to catch up, is all." Looking back at Sandburg, he asked, "You _will_ wait for me, right?"

 _"Always,"_ Blair murmured. "The scariest thing for me, about what happened? Was that I thought I'd lost you, left you behind somewhere…I don't have to be afraid of that anymore. I know if I wait, you'll come."

Satisfied, Jim nodded. That was good enough for him.

"Do you have other questions?" Swift Eagle asked quietly.

Sniffing, coughing a little to clear his still heavy lungs, Blair nodded. "You've called yourselves 'brothers in time', and you said the place where we saw the spirit guides was the 'forest in time' - I don't understand. Can you explain what all that means?"

Whispering Waters chuckled dryly. "You ask questions that can not be fully answered, young one. But I will try." He paused a moment, gazing out at the river as he gathered his thoughts. "These bodies we wear are like the clothes we put on - when they are worn out, we take them off and go on our way. That which dwells within the body has no end and cannot die. It is the core of our being, our spirit, and has existed for all time." Turning his calm, steady gaze back to Blair, he explained the beliefs of his people. "As in this world, spirits align with like spirits, sharing missions through time, to learn, to help others learn, to experience the beauty of what the Great Spirit has created and given to us. So, spirits journey together through time, and those who are closest, who can not imagine traveling without the other because their need and love for one another is so great, we call 'brothers in time'." Whispering Waters smiled softly as he looked again toward the river, at the women doing their work, "We are men in this life, Swift Eagle and I, so we call ourselves brothers; in another life, we might be sisters, or lovers and call one another 'mates through time'."

Turning back to Blair, he continued, "As we journey, we use the gifts we have, that which makes us unique. Your sentinel, as others, has special gifts of awareness of this world. He has also great strength, and courage - and the desire to serve others, to safeguard them from danger. Brave Star has all of these qualities in each of his lives. He is a Watchman, a favoured son of the Great Spirit, one who is specially gifted to protect others, as the Great Spirit loves and protects us all."

Jim shifted as, embarrassed by Whispering Waters' words, a slight blush crept over his cheeks. Humour flashed in the older man's eyes as he added, "Sentinels can also be stubborn, for they must be persevering by nature. They can become frustrated when those they live to protect endanger themselves foolishly, because that frightens them, as they are afraid of failing in their mission to safeguard. So, sometimes they appear angry, when really they are hurting from their own inability to always protect, as they wish to. They can become impatient, even resentful of their special sensitivities, because these talents are heavy ones to bear, and can bring their own pain. But, life after life, a Watchman's spirit chooses to be a sentinel, to suffer the discomforts that they might do good. They are brave…and often humble in their own way."

Sandburg was smiling at Jim, and nodding, agreeing with everything the old shaman was saying - he had seen it all himself, many, many times. Ellison, however, thought that perhaps they had heard enough about sentinels, and finally found he had a question of his own to ask.

"And, uh, what about the companions, the Guides?" Ellison interjected. "What are their special talents?"

Swift Eagle snorted softly in amusement. "Ah, the companions," he intoned as he looked sideways at Whispering Waters. "The companions, the Guides, never think they are special. Just very ordinary, so they say. But they have different strengths. They have the power within them to be mighty shamans, to heal with their touch and their compassion, not simply the body, but also the heart and the soul. The companions make others whole - they complete the sentinel bond, and soothe the roughness of the senses and the anger we sometimes feel. They are wise, and can often see past the mist that blinds the rest of us, into time itself, the past and the future. They can journey in the Forest of Time, and commune with the spirit guides and our ancestors \- they can travel without their bodies to other places, see and be seen, touch and be touched. Companions, Guides, seek knowledge as a thirsty man seeks water. And," with a wry glance toward Jim, "they like to share that knowledge, so they talk and talk, and then they talk even more."

Ellison barked out a laugh, the tone of forbearance from the older man resonating so completely with his own, often fond, weariness in listening to all that Sandburg always had to say. Blair dug an elbow in his ribs and gave him a look of hurt irritation, but then he snickered and Jim ruffled his curls. "Got you nailed, Sandburg," he muttered.

Swift Eagle allowed a spare smile at their play, but then continued, "The companions' weakness is that they take too much into themselves, trying to absorb the pain of others, to heal and comfort. They hide their own hurts, lest they be a burden for others to carry. It can take great energy, and can be wearing, tiring. They can risk taking too much pain, pretending it is of no consequence. But the bodies they wear have limits, and they can hurt themselves badly. They, too, are brave in their way. They are prepared to sacrifice all that they are. So, again, it falls to the watchmen, to ensure they rest and that their spirits do not overreach the strength of their bodies. They have no sense, when it comes to this, Sentinel, so be warned."

This time, Jim didn't laugh, but nodded soberly. He'd already begun to learn this lesson, only too well, but now realized that maybe Blair had not - perhaps even could not - and would bear watching.

"But, uh, I'm not a shaman," Sandburg interjected, biting his lip as he thought about what Swift Eagle had said, and thinking it had been a little overstated, at least in his case, if not with respect to Whispering Waters. "I don't have those skills or that wisdom. I mean, I'm a pretty good doctor…"

Swift Eagle sighed heavily. "You see, they deny their uniqueness," he said to Jim as he shook his head with weary forbearance.

Whispering Waters cleared his throat. "You are teasing the young one," he charged. When Swift Eagle threw him a quick look and then shrugged, he added, "And also you are teasing me - but not without some measure of truth."

Turning to Sandburg, he continued, "You have, within you, the power of a great shaman. But you have not acknowledged it. Yesterday, you asked if we might teach you how to see animal spirits. Look around you, and ask them to appear - believe that they will respond to your summons, and they will appear. Your power is locked behind walls of disbelief. Only you can bring those walls down. You have the power to heal in your hands and in your heart - those you touch draw from your strength whether you have been aware of that or not - your touch cannot help but heal. But be warned. It takes energy to bring a broken body back from the Forests of Time, which is the boundary between this world and the next - and it is in our nature to die and be reborn \- so, death is not the enemy. Life is a stopping place on our journey in time. Some of us need only linger a short while before moving on. Others of us have purposes that require a longer moment to fulfill. You carry a great burden of judgment, of knowing when to let a spirit go to continue its journey, and when to call it back. You must listen to your own heart, and your own spirit, as well as your mind - and you must be willing to let a spirit go when it is time, though that might cause you, or those who wish to hold onto that spirit, pain."

Blair cut in, for this discussion touched his most profound beliefs about the sanctity of life, "But, wait - I can't just stand back and let someone die if I can help him or her! I mean - I've had patients who have wanted to die, but that was fear, pain, talking - blinding them to the possibilities that life could still hold."

"There is a difference between the medicines you use that are of this earth, and the skills you use that are of this time - and the power that rests in your spirit. By all means, use what is available to you as you journey through time, but you have yet to simply lay-on your hands with the _intention_ of calling back a life from the Forest. When you do, you will feel the difference, and know the cost," Whispering Waters counseled. "I am saying that it is _this_ power, this extraordinary gift that can defy the laws of this world - this is the one to learn to use wisely."

Swift Eagle leaned toward Jim as he mumbled, "You'll have to watch him. For all that my Guide says it's a matter of wisdom, I have seen him fight to hold onto a soul because it is a compulsion for him to help. There is real danger - it is very wearying, and makes them weak. They are very vulnerable at that time. I've tried to forbid him doing this, but he doesn't listen to me. So \- I watch and guard him as best I can."

Blair looked from Swift Eagle to Whispering Waters and found the shaman watching him with amusement in his eyes. Thinking he understood, Blair nodded. The sentinels didn't understand; sometimes it is necessary to risk, to do what is necessary. But Whispering Waters shook his head slightly as his gaze drifted to the other men and back again to Blair. Frowning slightly, Blair knew he was missing something - and then he realized what it was. The sentinels understood that risk is necessary - it was just that they risked losing themselves in other ways, for other purposes. Which is why he had to watch out for Jim.

When his eyes lifted again to the old shaman, Whispering Waters nodded, as he said softly, "You see now why they need a guide and we need a watchman? Why it is that we travel together in time?"

"Yeah, I do…thank you," Blair replied.

Jim, looked from one to the other, and said, "I think I missed something…understand what?"

A smile dancing on his lips, Blair replied, "Basically, big guy, you need me to guide the use of your senses and watch your back when you're giving all you've got to do the watchman thing, and I need you to watch me in case I lose my balance."

"Uh-huh," Ellison grunted, frowning, with a shiver of remembered horror, as he thought of Blair tumbling from the cliff, and nodding in agreement. "Sounds about right."

* * *

They talked until well past the setting of the sun, until Blair's eyes grew heavy, his body tired and needing rest after the harm that had been done to it earlier that day. Though Jim wanted to indulge Sandburg's endless curiousity, finally his concern about Blair's weariness and the heaviness in his lungs could no longer be denied, and he insisted that the younger man needed to rest. Whispering Waters brewed some bark and sweet-smelling herbs in a pot over the fire and, after straining it, gave it to Blair to drink, saying it would help clear his chest. Gratefully, Sandburg accepted the potion, while Jim's gratitude to the shaman was in his eyes.

Then, they retired under the stars, beside the warmth of the fire, and when the sun rose again, they talked throughout the whole of the next day.

Jim and Blair learned of more things Jim could do with his senses, and how to refine his control of them. But the most important thing they learned, so far as Sandburg was concerned, was that the sound of running water or rain really could block out other intrusive sounds. Whispering Wind had developed a simple mechanism using water and stones, and a hollowed a tube of sturdy but resilient vine, to create a fountain of sorts, where gravity kept the water endlessly flowing. The device helped Swift Eagle sleep when his body was exhausted, either from endless hours on watch or when he was ill or wounded. Sandburg knew he could easily craft a similar device for Jim, using a piece of rubber tubing, and put it in Ellison's bedroom. Simple, but ingenious, and it would give his friend a place where he could rest undisturbed.

Once they had finished answering all the questions Blair, and occasionally Jim, posed about how to work with the sentinel skills, Whispering Winds turned to Blair and asked, "So, young one, are you ready to open your mind and see what more there is in this world?"

Suddenly still, Sandburg licked his lips, nodding tentatively. "I saw the Forest, and both our spirit guides when I…when Jim came to find me. I'd like to see the wolf and jaguar again. What do I have to do?"

"Close your eyes, and call them to you," Whispering Wind counseled, his voice steady and assured. "Tell them you wish to be aware of them, always, to learn what they would teach you, to hear their warnings and trust them. Let all other cares slip away, all doubts, know that they _will_ come to you. And then open your eyes and look - you will see."

Nodding soberly, Blair closed his eyes while the others watched in silence. They could see his shoulders relax as his breathing slowed and deepened. When he opened his eyes, he at first appeared startled and then he smiled with delight, bowing his head to the spirit guides who had appeared by each of their human counterparts. Swift Eagle's was a magnificent golden eagle, its eyes piercingly bright as it perched on the old man's shoulders. Whispering Waters' guide was a stag, with a broad rack of antlers, tall and stately as it stood by the shaman. Jim's black panther laid at the lawman's feet and, when it turned to Sandburg, it yawned as if to say it was about time the kid had figured out how to make contact with them. And Blair's own guide was a sturdy gray wolf with unusual blue eyes. The wolf pressed against him, insinuating its head under his hand, eager to touch and be touched by this most beloved man.

"You're _beautiful_ ," Blair sighed to them all, as he stroked his wolf and scratched under its jaw. "Thank you for coming to me - and thank you," he said most sincerely, his voice catching, as he looked first at the jaguar and then at the wolf, "for helping me to stay here, to be where I belong."

Jim looked at the empty space that Blair was stroking fondly, his eyes tracking to where Blair seemed to be looking, but shook his head. He couldn't see a damned thing, and he wasn't sure whether to be relieved or frustrated.

Swift Eagle was alert to Ellison's discomfiture. "You can see them, too, when it is necessary. If they have a warning to bear, they will manifest either to your vision or your hearing, so that you will be alerted when there is danger."

Remembering the howling of the wolf he'd heard, on two occasions now, Jim frowned. Turning to Sandburg, he asked, "Is that the wolf you're petting?"

"Yeah, he's amazing!" Blair enthused as he looked down at the animal, scratching now between its ears.

Taking a breath, and addressing the perfectly empty space, Jim said with all sincerity, "I'm sorry I didn't listen when you tried to give me warning. I didn't understand. In the future, I will listen." And then he asked, "Is the jaguar here?"

Whispering Waters gestured toward his feet.

Ellison shook his head, tentatively reaching out, sincerely wishing he could see the big cat as he said, his voice low and rough, "Thank you…for bringing him back to me."

For just a brief moment, both the wolf and the jaguar appeared to him then, pleased with his sincerity and, in their way, demonstrating their commitment to him. He gazed at them slack-jawed and then swallowed hard, bowing his head to them in a gesture of respect.

Whispering Waters then showed Blair how he could simply focus on wood, or even on sand, and call forth fire with the power of his mind. It was - incredible. But Blair smiled to himself as he reflected how handy the skill would be when he needed fire in an emergency, to cleanse his instruments, or to keep someone suffering from shock warm until he could help them, like Rafe, back when they'd gone after the rustlers.

Finally, the old shaman walked Blair through the process of meditation, of breathing deeply and relaxing as he let his mind either drift or focus on a single vision or sound…and then taught him how to let go of his worldly body to walk on the spirit plane. As one who had learned these skills before, through countless lives, it did not take long for Blair to remember how it was done. For his first walk, Whispering Waters suggested he not go far, perhaps just down to the river, to get a sense of how it felt and to see, as well, how vulnerable he left his body when his spirit walked - so that he would not abandon his earthly form lightly.

Jim discovered that he didn't like, at all, what happened next - while his spirit went for a ramble, Blair keeled over and looked more than half-dead, though his body continued to breathe shallowly. Nor did he immediately return when Jim, considering a minute more than long enough for the experience, lightly shook his partner and called him back. It was at least another minute or two before Blair returned, and only the calm, impassive faces of their hosts kept Jim from taking more drastic measures to rouse his Guide.

With a great deal of restraint in respect for Blair's own choices, when Sandburg returned to his body, Jim yelled, "That's it! You're **_not_** doing that again!"

The lawman wasn't sure why everyone else found that so funny but for the first time, he heard Swift Eagle and Whispering Waters laugh heartily, with as much abandon and merriment as Sandburg did.

"What?" he demanded, scowling at them all.

"It's okay, Jim," Blair snickered and then did his best to assume a sober demeanor. "I, uh, I promise not to do that again, unless it's _really_ necessary!"

"How necessary could it be?" Ellison grumbled mulishly. "You've lived almost thirty years without ever having to do it before."

* * *

On the third day of their discussion, their big questions asked and answered, Blair and Jim were beginning to realize that they soon needed to head home. Though they were sorry to call an end to the fascinating exchange - Blair perhaps more sorry than Jim - they explained around mid-afternoon that they would have to leave in the morning.

Swift Eagle and Whispering Waters seemed unperturbed as they nodded in acceptance but both regretted seeing these two of their kind bring their visit to an end. Rarely did the older men have the opportunity to visit with, talk with, others who understood who and what they were, to share the experience of what it meant to be 'brothers in time' and know their listeners fully appreciated and shared the magic, and mystery, of their existence.

"Then, it is time to move past the talking," Swift Eagle said. "Before you leave, we would have you purify your bodies and spirits, that you may return to your village strong, with joy in your hearts."

Whispering Waters then directed, "Go to the river and swim. When you return, we will show you into the sweat lodge, where you will remain until the moon has risen. And then you will dance."

"Dance?" Jim echoed, his eyes narrowing.

Whispering Waters nodded gravely. "The dance has great purpose and value. As the drums beat in the light of the fire, your feet touch the earth and draw strength from her breast, but your spirit soars with the joy of being one with all creation. When you dance together, it is a symbol of your life together here on the earth and, also, of the union of your spirits in time."

Ellison looked uncertain, but allowed Sandburg to haul him up to his feet to walk with him to the river.

Clad only in their breechclouts, they swam in its cool embrace, welcome after the heat of the day. Sandburg luxuriated in the feel the water's silky rush over sore muscle and bone that still ached from his fall, soothing away the stiffness and fatigue…he inhaled deeply, breathing the sweet, clear air that rustled through leaves above while floating in the dappled shadows of the overarching boughs, out of the harsh glare of the sun…gently cushioned by the river's strength…and he heard the lazy plop of a fish and the soft, gurgling rush of the water over stones by the sloping bank…peaceful and restorative…

Rarely did one have the luxury of immersing, unclothed, in the clear, running water of the creek or even the river near Bitterwood Creek. The good ladies of the town would have been scandalized, and the children would have been sure to be to lurk in the bushes, giggling. But now, he could float in cool shadows near the shore, or further out and feel the warmth of the sun on his face as the water buoyed his body.

And then, he stilled, suddenly reminded of his fantasy while on the stagecoach, so long ago it seemed now, on the day when he had first arrived in Bitterwood Creek.

These moments of peace were more than simply similar to his imaginings…he'd been _here_ for those few peaceful moments. No wonder the fantasy had felt so real…now he knew it had been a vision of his future - when he'd walked away from the stagecoach that long ago day, his footsteps had led him to Jim and eventually to this place, this time. He blinked as he looked up into the sky and smiled. The vision had been a promise of peace - but only if he chose the right path. Had he continued on with the stagecoach, he never would have found his way here…

Jim's voice intruded from somewhere near, "Be careful, Chief - the current is strong."

Flipping to paddle in place, Blair gazed at his best friend with concern at the tight tone of Jim's voice. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," Ellison grunted as he continued to tread water within arm's reach. "It's just that the last time we took a swim, it…wasn't fun."

Blair's eyes dropped and he nodded. "I'm sorry - I wasn't thinking about that." Looking up again to meet Jim's gaze, he asked, "How did you get to me so quickly? I mean, you were way up on the cliff…"

"I jumped," Jim replied succinctly.

"You **_jumped?_** " Sandburg exclaimed, his eyes wide. " ** _Are you nuts?_** You could have **_killed_** yourself!"

Ellison shook his head as his eyes strayed to the high wall of rock further up the river. "It's not like there were a lot of options, Chief," he replied with an effort to sound matter-of-fact as he relived some of the scariest moments of his life. Jumping off the damned cliff had been the least of his worries. "I didn't know you'd been hit when I shot Rutherford - I turned around - but you were…gone. I saw you in the water, and you were floating facedown. There wasn't a lot of time to consider alternatives, you know?"

"You are really… _amazing_ ," Sandburg breathed. "Thank God, I got off that stage."

"Huh?" Jim grunted, not sure what Blair was talking about.

"The day I arrived in Bitterwood Creek," Blair elaborated. "I'd been on this god-awful hot stagecoach for what seemed like forever. And I was looking out the window at the river, thinking how much I just wanted to immerse myself in its cool depths - when the stage stopped suddenly. The driver had spotted the yellow rag, and wasn't going to go into town, obviously. So, when I found out they didn't have a doctor, I got my bags off the coach and walked into town." He paused a moment, looking at the beautiful world around him, marveling as he murmured, "But it wasn't a wish or a fantasy. It was a vision of the future, Jim. It was _here_ and _now_ …"

"And that links to me being amazing, how?" Jim prodded, a quizzical look on his face. Sandburg was acting very oddly, even for him.

"You didn't know, but the day you gave me my life back was my birthday. If not for you, instead of it being the day of my rebirth, it would have been the day I died. Your friendship is the most precious gift in my life," Blair murmured softly. He paused for a moment to look at the beautiful world around him and then returned his gaze to Ellison's. "Getting off that stage in Bitterwood Creek links to you being amazing because, if I hadn't gotten off that stage, I wouldn't ever have met you - I would have wandered, lost, looking for you, and not even known why or who I was looking for. I, well, I wouldn't want to live my whole life without knowing you, I guess is all I'm saying."

Jim gave him a crooked smile. "Works both ways, Chief. I didn't know I was looking for you, either, until you found me. I didn't have a clue what I was, or what to do with my senses, or any idea where I was going or what my life was for. I thought I was going crazy, to tell you the truth. And then you made everything make sense. Seems like we take turns finding each other, when we're lost."

Looking back at the village, and remembering what they'd been told, Blair mused, "Maybe that's the way it's always been…"

"For sure, it's going to be the way it always will be…" Jim asserted, and then he teased bravely, trying to mask how very much he desperately wished he could keep Blair safe, always, "I may never let you out of my sight again. Hell, I just turn around for half a second and you're gone. Gotta stop doing that, Sandburg. I'm too old for that much excitement."

* * *

Blair was tired when they came back to shore, his body still weak from the drowning. His lungs were also still a little congested and Jim still didn't like the sound of his lingering cough. But Whispering Waters gave Blair another infusion of herbs, and it did seem to help.

The sweat lodge helped as well. The dry heat permeated Blair to his bones, so that he felt warm clear through. He luxuriated in it, breathing it in and coughing out the phlegm until, finally, his breathing eased completely, the congestion gone. Garbed only in their breechclouts, they sat quietly together in the small hut, occasionally bestirring themselves to pour water over the hot stones to lift steam into the air. Sandburg leaned against Jim's shoulder, dozing against the sure strength of his Sentinel.

Jim rested his back against the wall of the hut made of pine boughs and leaves stuck together and sealed with clay. His eyes closed, he listened to the sound of Sandburg's heart beating, and to his easy breathing, and was relieved that the last of the congestion was gone. He could feel his Guide leaning into him, close.

Safe.

Lifting his arm to embrace Blair's shoulders and draw the drowsing younger man closer to his side, Jim sighed peacefully.

He was content.

* * *

The air outside the sweat lodge had cooled with the setting of the sun, so when they emerged, the sweat on their skin disappeared, leaving them feeling reinvigorated and refreshed. Swift Eagle and Whispering Waters, garbed now in their traditional breechclouts and short leather kilts, their skin painted with sacred symbols, were waiting to lead them through the village to a huge bonfire that had been built near the shoreline. It looked as though the whole village was there, sitting in the shadows, the firelight flickering on their faces and reflecting back from their dark eyes.

As they approached a drum began to beat, slowly at first, but then quickening in tempo. Another drum joined it, and a third, until their compelling percussion filled the air, echoing and reechoing off the stone of the high surrounding cliffs, resonating through their bodies until they could feel the beat in their bones.

"Watch, and follow…" Swift Eagle murmured in Jim's ear.

Whispering Waters stepped toward the fire, his bare feet catching the rhythm, shuffling a little on the earth. His body moved with the beat, swaying with it, his head and shoulders rising and falling as the pace picked up and he lifted his knees higher as he raised his arms to the night sky. Once around the fire, and then he drew Touch That Heals into the circle of the dance.

Sandburg's hair had dried into burnished curls that glinted in the fire's light. His lightly-bronzed body and well-matted chest contrasted with Whispering Waters' darker, hairless form. But they moved in a mesmerizing harmony of motion, feet stamping the earth, arms lifting to the stars, heads thrown back as they danced around the fire.

Whispering Waters then drew Swift Eagle into the dance, between himself and Touch That Heals. The tempo picked up as the shaman danced facing his watchman, and then danced around him before coming back to face him. Swift Eagle then danced around Whispering Waters, but instead of facing his companion, he faced out to the world, guarding the Guide at his back, while his companion guarded him.

When they came back around the circle, Blair drew Jim into the dance, and all four men stamped the earth, feeling her strength, drawing it in as they reached their arms to the stars, their spirits moving to the rhythm of the hollow, haunting drums. Blair danced around Jim, facing him, as Whispering Waters danced around Swift Eagle, and then the sentinels danced around their guides, strong, proud, protecting what was theirs…

The circle changed as Whispering Waters and Swift Eagle danced into the shadows, leaving Touch That Heals and Brave Star to dance alone around the roaring fire. Light and shadow played over their bodies as they swayed and shifted, turned and turned again - facing one another, to watch - back to back, to protect. The drums grew louder, the beat faster, as they thumped the soles of their feet upon the ground. Touch That Heals' wild mane spun out from his shoulders as he swayed and whirled in abandoned, unrestrained motion, his body pulsing out the beat of the drums. The light caught the blue of Brave Star's eyes as he watched his companion, illuminating the joyful pride…and the steadfast love that burned brighter than the flames. Touch That Heals' face was alight with passionate joy, so that he glowed in the flickering light, smiling with exuberant life as he danced possessively around his Sentinel, amazed and grateful to know he was loved as he loved, so that his spirit soared…

Sweat glistened upon their bodies, catching the flicking fire's light and throwing it back. Glowing ashes spun up toward the stars, and the moon rose high in the sky, shedding its own silvery benediction on the forest, the village of tents, the earth, the gathering of people and the river, uniting them all for this moment in time…

The people began to chant, a low counterpoint to the drums, and then higher voices blended in, creating a mysterious magic of sound and light as the flickering fire cast out heat in an atavistic dance of its own - earth and spirit singing in ageless harmony - while together and bound for eternity - brothers in time - the Sentinel, Brave Star, and his Guide, Touch That Heals… ** _danced…_**

* * *

_Finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story draws upon actual historical events, such as the infamous massacre of Chief Black Kettle's village by the US Cavalry at Sand Creek, and places such as prisons like Andersonville. During the Civil War, over 620,000 Americans died, with disease killing twice as many as those lost in battle. 50,000 survivors returned home as amputees. Also, the story has basis in the oral histories of African-Americans that recount how they did what was in their power to do, to resist the oppression of slavery. Amerindians were taken as slaves, principally by the Spanish, and most did die as a result of the experience.
> 
> The general information on slavery through the ages, and its variations or purpose, as well as the philosophy about slaves in terms of military or economic misfortune versus spiritual superiority, as well as the taking of slaves from Africa is historically correct. The Romans defeated the people of Palestine in 70 AD, selling the Jewish people into slavery all over the known ancient world…it was the desire to return to their homeland that led their descendents to contribute pennies and nickels (or their equivalent in Europe) to three rabbis who literally bought the land in trust, a parcel at a time over a span of years, that led to Israel being recognized as an independent nation by the United Nations in 1948. The Book of Enoch tells the story of the sons of fallen angels, the Watchmen, who were born to protect mankind…
> 
> …details on the Jewish traditions of Chanukah and Passover were drawn from the Internet site, http://www.aish.com/ and the information is given is virtually verbatim…
> 
> …in terms of the medical elements of this story, the information on diphtheria is correct. The purpose of the spleen is also to be a storehouse of sorts for blood, in the event more is needed by the body in a hurry (which accounts for the severity of the hemorrhaging when Blair was shot), as well as performing the immune function role described. The liver is also a storehouse of blood, and is the one organ that will regenerate itself, so long as at least one-eighth of it is healthy and intact. As noted in the dedication to StarWatcher, willow-bark tea is an old natural remedy that predated aspirin and has many of the same effects of reducing fever and easing moderate pain. Laudanum was, I think, heroin-based and was highly addictive, but few understood its dangers in that era. Maggots, though an unpleasant image, are an ancient healing device, and are still used, in some places, in dire circumstances to clean away dead tissue while not harming that which is healthy.


End file.
